


Nibelung

by YacHaer



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Humor, M/M, Some kind of Spooks!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YacHaer/pseuds/YacHaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William "Bilbo" Baggins had totally changed after his parents' passing: he had given up his job of teacher and become reclusive but he had fulfilled his dream: was writer. However it came at the price of a boring routine and a less and less bearable loneliness, a price he was resigned to pay.<br/>Yet after an unexpected accident in a street involving a mysterious German, an envelope and a ukrainian "businessman", he found himself entangled in the worst power struggle he could imagine. He suddenly discovered that he had little grasp on his fate and he would have to relly on people he would never have trusted if his life had not depend on it.<br/>Besides Bilbo Baggins could gain and loose more than his life in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I prefer warning you right now, the worst things you could think of could very likely happen. I won't put to many tags in order to preserve a bit tad of suspens, so be prepared to the worst and hope for the best.  
> By the way, you can follow me on tumblr :  
> http://yachaer.tumblr.com/
> 
> This chapter has'nt been beta-read so excuse me for the numerous mistakes you'll surely encounter. If one of you is willing to volunteer I'd be more than grateful.  
> Enjoy the reading.

_“And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”_

Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_

_“His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.”_

Anne Brontë, _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_

*

Most people would say if they were to be asked that the life of a writer must be excessively idle, they were after all only writing books so it would give them plenty of time to spend the money they had earned. But William Robert Baggins knew better than that as he lived this life every day. He knew a writer has to subject themselves to a very rigorous discipline and stick to a strict schedule if they wanted to be productive. They cannot afford lazy mornings spent in bed, or wasting afternoons wallowed on the couch watching dumbly reruns of this or that show, while eating ice cream. The life of a writer is a life segmented by deadlines and the more alike a clockwork it is, the more efficient the writer is. And the least that one could say was that Mister Baggins was cut out to be a writer as he was probably born with a watch grafted in the chest in lieu of heart.

Every morning, he would wake up at seven o’clock very precisely, then he would go downstairs, in the kitchen to put the kettle on the cooker and prepare his breakfast: two slices of toasted bread with butter or jam, three slices of fried bacon along with two scrambled eggs, a glass of orange juice and a mug of strong tea. Afterward, he would shower, brush his teeth, shave the ridiculous ginger stubble on his chin and finally get dressed. Only then, around half past seven, he would sit in his study, a second mug of tea in one hand, and begin his daily writing task. Four hours of work later, he would decide that it was time to have lunch and once his stomach satisfied, he would then tend to various chores: the laundry, ironing, vacuuming, going shopping or doing paperwork. Then once the evening come, he would resume his work until diner. Finally after a well-spent day of hard-working, he would indulge himself a leisurely evening reading, listening music or watching the telly. Then the pattern would repeat. Again and again.

His nosy and unsavoury relatives never missed an occasion to tell him that he lived a very dull life and that it was no wonder that at the age of thirty-five, he was still stuck in bachelorhood with no wife or children to care for: he acted like a monk, for God’s sake. All that bother because of this whim of writing novels for children. But William was perfectly fine with the idea of spending the rest of his life like this, notwithstanding the bitter remarks of his prudish aunts. Remaining cloistered in his house in Marylebone and writing books which would bring a bit of happiness to a child or two and open a door out of this bleak world, that was for him as much an achievement as starting a family. He loved writing after all, it had always brought him joy, and always made him happier to share it with his parents and friends in school, high school and college. They said he had a gift for telling stories, he knew exactly how to entrance his readership, which word to use and where to put a comma in order to obtain the right rhythm and best effect.

If he had to phrase one regret, though, it would be that he had no one to share his life with: no wife or husband, and no child of his own. He _was_ happy with his life, but it wasn’t enough, and it made him boil internally like an erupting volcano to acknowledge it, his aunts were slightly right; he was single and lonely.

Not that it was particularly surprising in regard of his physical appearance, he was not really what was unanimously called attractive: his wild mane of light brown hairs and his dark blue eyes had earned him a few compliments along the years but of no avail when compared to his short height -he would only admit very reluctantly that he was not even five feet seven inches tall- or the extra pounds that belted his waist, though he did his best to conceal it under his waistcoats. His dark ginger beard, his oversized and outdated tortoise-shell glasses and his button nose were not his most stunning features either. Plainly said, he looked like the regular Englishman, the eccentric garments his only originality. Colourful shirts whose shades ranged from deep green to pale pink, polka-dotted bowties, tweed blazers and velvet waistcoats had his favour. His taste in clothing was another target for some people’s remarks but he couldn’t bring himself to care; as though some Londoners had the right to criticize his outfits and look over their shoulders when he passed by them. When one is dressed in shower curtains, one has only the right to shut up.

Yet, William found himself more hurt by some glances than he dares to admit, those judgmental glances which only gave him the urge of slapping the person who addressed it to him. He found however that those only scratched him without doing more than being irritating, it was even worse and actually galling when they came from his best friend. Those pitiful gazes…

“You know, Bilbo” his best (and only) friend Oliver had told him not that long ago. “I really can’t understand why you make no effort to find yourself somebody to spend your life with. I mean it’s not as though you don’t want to find your significant other.”

“Here we go again.” William had sighed. “Ori, your finding a boyfriend doesn’t mean that I should do the same. What is his name again?”

“His name is Dwayne. And I am just fed up to take care of you, I need someone to palm off the job to and let them do it in my stead. Not that I don’t like you, Bill.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“But I think I’ve found the right guy and I want to enjoy him before we both grow old and unattractive.”

“Hilarious.” Bilbo had replied tartly.

“Seriously, my point is that you are getting all rusted in that daily routine of yours. You really ought to get out of it before I walk into your place to find you mummified at your desk, your hands still on that hellish writing machine.”

“Maybe a bit too gothic and overdramatic, don’t you think?”

“Bill, just try go out of you shell, all right? I really begin to worry about you.”

Of course, William had made no promise to Oliver. He had tried before to find his “soulmate” as it was put in all the disgustingly mawkish songs, films and books ever written or directed. He had had his fair share of dates, boyfriends, partners and other denominations, so he was now perfectly able to state that disappointment was an utter understatement to describe the feeling which resulted from his previous sentimental debacles. In ten years of more or less mortifying attempts, he had come to about every possible end to a relationship; if one day he had enough of writing for children, he still could write a book about the psychological impact of being dumped, he certainly did not lack of experience: after a lovely evening spent in a restaurant, by text, but his favourite remained the post-it note on the fridge reading “It’s over between us. P.S. I emptied the bottle of milk.” No doubt that it would become a best-seller.

So Bilbo was tired of trying and saw little point in leaving the quiet comfort of his home, even if it meant turning bitter and grumpy, as his hair goes grey, and being called Mad Baggins by his neighbours. But of course, if life was this simple it wouldn’t be life, would it? Life has this infuriating habit of barging in one’s existence like an unwanted guest, turning it upside down and then storming out to ruin someone else’s one. Up to the owner of said shattered world to deal with the whole mess and mend the broken pieces back together.

Bilbo did well to avoid life during the five years which followed the last time it had thrown a catastrophe at his face. Sheltered in his home, he managed to make himself forgotten, however it seemed that life remembered the existence of William Robert Baggins, for it maliciously put a tiny grain of sand in the mechanism of his perfectly regular automaton daily routine and watched it race and fall apart with a no doubt self-satisfied grin on its lips.

*

This morning began just like any October morning, it was seven o’clock and his alarm clock reminded him that it was time for him to begin another productive day of writing with its usual delicate avalanche of bitter electronic sounds. Heavy greyish and blue clouds ran in the sky, carried by gusts of wind which made the branches of the trees sway lazily. The green leaves were beginning to turn a rich hue of ochre as the temperature was slowly drifting to fresher ones. Bilbo had always loved autumn, much more now than before, actually, it always brought back sweet memories, though they were now tainted by a hint of melancholia. He opened the sash window of his bedroom, letting the cool air in and chasing the damp and stuffy one. He could smell in the breeze this particular scent which announced a rainy day and a sly smile curved his lips: this reminded him so much of his young years spent in the Hampshire.

He remembered fondly Sunday afternoons spent walking in woods with his parents, picking chestnuts and mushrooms under the ever vigilant eyes of his mother, then their booty would have been triumphantly brought back home, cooked and devoured eagerly. The very same smell would float in the misty air, mixed the sweetish perfume of damp earth and rotting leaves. Sometimes, he really missed Bag-End and the Hampshire country. He could still see the green hilly fields if he closed his eyes, though he had not gone home for five years. This was during moments like this, when his daily life unexpectedly reminded him where he came from, that he felt the ache of his losses the most accurately.

A quick glance to his clock prompted him out of his thoughts by reminded him that he had a schedule to follow, so he grabbed his dressing gown put it on and tied a knot with the belt as he proceeded with his daily routine and went downstairs toward the kitchen. Now that he was on track, no reverie would lead him astray from his self-imposed duties. The day could truly begin.

Later, while he sat in his study, at his modest desk, peering pensively through the window which towered over his second-hand writing machine, he wondered what it would be like for him to be forced away of his home. Not that it would ever happen to him, no, though that would help him for his work in progress; the heroes of his next book were a man and his daughter whose home was ravaged by a pack of wolves, so they had no other choice but to run away without any hope of coming back. He was trying to be in their shoes, to think as they would if they were true beings of flesh and bone and not ghosts of paper and ink. He had to consider what he would feel himself if he were to be pushed in an unknown and hostile world and put his own feelings on the lips of Eik and Lilja. After all, the characters created by an author were always small pieces of themselves. He was borrowing their voices to word his thoughts as much as they were doing themselves.

So what if he were to be brought away from his home? Well, he would likely crave for coming back, he would recall the happy moments spent there and feel a painful nostalgia squeeze his heart and tighten his throat. Flashes of his parents’ house began to emerge once again from the back of his mind were he had cast them out, feeling melancholy overwhelm him, he shook his head and dispelled the reminiscence like a haze of smoke. What was wrong with him today, it seemed he couldn’t focus properly this morning, and why was he even wondering what would Eik and Lilja feel when he knew perfectly how it felt like to leave his home behind.

The words flowed easily afterward, as though the recalling of Bag-End had opened some inner sluice, they were now lining on the crisp white paper as Bilbo’s fingers flew effortlessly over the keys and a continuous metallic clicking filled the silence of the empty house. But Bilbo was too focused on the black letters before his eyes to notice the void that dwelled his cosy house alongside him. He stopped writing when the little clock set on the corner of his desk chimed, announcing midday. Almost simultaneously, Bilbo’s belly grumbled, another loud reminding that it was lunch time as well. With a satisfied sigh, Bilbo slid the last sheet out of the machine and delicately laid it on the wooden surface of the desk, not wanting the ink to dribble. He had worked well this morning; he could reasonably hope to finish his latest novel before the end of next month if he managed to keep this pace, then he would have to reread it whole, check it for mistakes and refine a few details.

“You would have been proud of me, Mom,” he said to the photograph of his mother hanging on the wall next to him.

It had been shot not very long after her wedding with his father, who probably took this photograph during a hot late spring afternoon. Photography was one of his father’s passions, alongside psychology and history, so it seemed that artistry ran in the family. He would bring his camera everywhere they went for an outing and come back home with a whole used roll of film that he would develop himself in their cave. But this particular photograph was his pride and joy and William could only agree with him: Belladonna Baggins was beautiful with her long hair escaping her straw hat only to fall on curly waves on her shoulders. Her light summer dress and the wildflowers she had gathered in her hands looked so dull compared to her bright eyes and smile. Of all her collection of smiles, this one was Bilbo’s favourite, it was serene and tender and yet cheerful. It was the smile she wore when Bilbo had seen her for the last time, in her hospital room, five years ago. She had looked so proud when he had told her of his decision to leave his former job of teacher to fulfil his dream and become a writer. He stood and strode dreamily out of the study to go on with his schedule.

Bilbo was to have an appointment in the afternoon with his publisher, Eli Roundriver, to discuss the translation of his last published book into German. William already knew that the matter would be promptly sorted. He knew that Eli would be fair to him just like he had always been, so he would not waste time trying to decipher the schemes of a greedy publisher. Besides, he owed so much to Roundriver Publishing and was too grateful as Eli was the very first person to believe in him and his work to refuse him anything.

He will most certainly remember until the end of his life the first time the two of them had met: Bilbo had received back his book for the fifth time, always with a polite letter uttering more or less that they did not give a damn about books for children or youth, that they were serious publishing companies, oh, and that he should write a proper book, not some preposterous fairy tale, thank you very much. So when Bilbo had sent his book to Roundriver Publishing, it had been with little hope for anything different of another refusal letter, only to receive a phone call a week later. To think that he had almost missed that phone call for he was in his garden, pulling weeds around his tomato plants, but thankfully, he had got the phone in time and listened bemused an enthusiastic Eli Roundriver himself telling him that he was more than interested by publishing his book. They had set an appointment and two days later, it had been settled: Bilbo’s first book, " _The House under the Hill_ ", would be published by Roundriver Publishing.

A few years prior, Eli had confessed that the very first person who had read Bilbo’s book and pointed it to him was no one else that Eli’s own daughter. The little girl was used to coming to her father’s office after school and it had been during one of these afternoons that she had come across the book, set on her father’s desk among other typescripts. Intrigued by its title, she had asked Eli if she could read it, he had agreed absent-mindedly only to find his daughter still reading passionately The House under the Hill a few hours later when he bothered to look up from the papers he had been reading. Since then, little Arwen had always been the very first person to read Bilbo’s books and give him her candid opinion. Then, over the years, Eli had quite curiously become a bit more than his boss, somebody closer to a friend.

So if Eli wanted his latest book to be translated into German, well, so be it. Bilbo trusted wholly his publisher’s judgment so there was no reason for the meeting not to go smoothly.

*

Just as he had expected, the meeting had gone perfectly. Bilbo had signed a few papers had exchanged news with Eli, he had asked after his children and wife and announced that " _The Wandering_ " would be finished before the end of the year. Eli was of course just as satisfied as Bilbo was himself and he had invited him to have a nice dinner with his family the next week. After having accepted, drank a cup of tea together and exchanged a handshake, Bilbo had left, letting Eli reading his daily batch of dull typescripts.

It was still early, around three, when Bilbo went out of Roundriver Publishing’s building, and as he was done with writing for the day and nothing urgent required his immediate attendance at home, he decided to indulge himself a walk home by foot instead of taking the overcrowded tube. Eli’s office was located in Bloomsbury and Bilbo’s flat was at around half an hour away from it, besides he would cut through The Regent’s Park just for the sake of seeing and smelling the coming autumn settling its colours on the foliage of the trees.

Bilbo had always found that walking was an amazingly soothing activity, in addition of being invigorating, there was nothing better to keep fit than thirty minutes of energetic walking. Although London was maybe not the best place in the world to practice this wonderful activity, it had nothing to do with the Hampshire countryside. Besides the aggravating lack of meadows and forests, the main annoyance that he had to bear in the streets of the Capital was the constant flow of morose faces. It was never a pleasant sight to be faced to expressionless and hostile faces which deigned to pay attention to him only to furrow their brows when they noticed his colourful and eccentric outfits. Some of them were outright rude, staring at him as though he was a curiosity which should be pinned to a cardboard with a needle like an exotic butterfly, or glaring disapproving daggers, or even shoving him out of their ways like a worthless piece of scum, yet it was way less offending than some comments he had received over the years.

Be sure that fate would choose the very moment that thought crossed Bilbo’s mind to send a rock-hard body bumping into his, and of course, given his small frame, he would have bounced back like a rubber ball and he fallen backward on the cold and merciless asphalt of the sidewalk if not for the huge and firm hand which caught his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you all right, sir?” a rough low thickly German accented voice said.

Bilbo looked up and met an iron grey gaze inlaid in a weather-beaten rough-hewn face. His saviour slowly released his strong grip on his arm; Bilbo was almost certain that it would bruise in a few hours.

“Y-yes, I think so,” Bilbo stammered, not at ease at all under the metallic stare of this Germanic bulk of a man. There was something profoundly intimidating in this cold, angular golem, all in muscle and martially short dark brown hair. Maybe it was due to the tenseness in the muscles of his strong jaw and neck. Bilbo was certain that the man was perfectly able to crush him single-handedly, put his remnants in a match box before throwing it in the Thames without letting any trace of his crime. The idea made Bilbo gulped laboriously, he had no desire of having his bones turned into toothpicks for this giant.

Then, out of the blue, a warm and friendly smile spread his previously pursed lips, brightening his stern features, as the light of recognition cleared his furrowed brow, like wind cast away rainy threatening clouds.

“Wait a minute…Aren’t you William Robert Baggins?”

Well that was unexpected. Of all the people in the world, he certainly did not expected a nearly six feet three inches tall German to recognize him in the street; he did not actually have the target profile of his average readership, which comprised of children between seven and twelve years old. But, who was he to question this man’s tastes in literature, after all?

“I…Uh, indeed,” he answered with outstanding eloquence.

“Ah, I knew it!” the man cheered triumphantly, his smile growing wider as he punched the air. “My kids are so fond of your books, they must have read each one at least ten times.”

That explained a lot. And somewhat, it was reassuring. Not that he was being judgemental. Not at all, mind you.

“That is very flattering,” he squealed disgracefully, feeling his cheeks turning a potent shade of red due to embarrassment.

Instead of commenting his undignified behaviour –if he noticed them in the first place, the enthusiastic German captured one of his small hands in his grip and shook it vigorously, almost dislocating his wrist, before patting mightily his shoulder with one of his huge paws.

“My kids will be overjoyed when I’ll tell them that I met their favourite author in the street. Have a nice walk, sir and sorry once again for not having seen you, my wife says that I’m a bit of a brute.”

And on that last cue, the man all but vanished in the mildly crowded street, leaving Bilbo standing dumbfounded, massaging his abused limb.

Well, the man might have a rather unsettling guise but his appearance was more than traitorous, as he was finally friendlier than the impression had let supposing, albeit a bit more fond of physical contact than Bilbo would have been comfortable with. Nonetheless it was pleasant to see that his work was appreciated, and it was way more rewarding than he would have expected, without any narcissism. It was actually quite soothing to receive the living proof that the five last years of his life had not been wasted. He now had something to reply when his puritan coelacanths of aunts would criticize his job.

He was even quite chipper when arrived in his neighbourhood, allowing himself to whistle snippets of songs. This audacity will certainly wallow a full batch of gossips from his nosy and very proper neighbours, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Playing with his key ring, he thought that he deserved a well-earned treats with his tea. Scones maybe? Definitely scones.

Once his door opened and closed behind him, he threw his keys in the coin tray set on the console of the entry and began rummaging in the pockets of his blazer, looking for his cell-phone. But instead, the tip of his fingers met the dry surface of a piece of paper. Bilbo froze, he was sure of having shoved nothing of the sort in his pocket. He pulled it slowly out and discovered between his fingers a small envelope of crisp white paper. It was surprisingly heavy in the palm of his hand and, somehow, he didn’t like this weight at all; it felt as sinister as the cold mass of a gun. There was no name written on the envelope, and it was not closed, so he opened it gingerly and something rolled out of it and fell on the shining wooden floorboards with a small metallic sound. Bilbo lowered his gaze and found between his shoes of brown leather a golden ring. He slowly bent down and picked it between his thumb and his index finger and cupping it in his palm. The contact of the cold gold sent a shiver creep along his spine, erecting the small hair of his neck.

The ring was quite simple, except from the precious metal it was made of, it was round and sported no stone or ornaments. Nothing was engraved on the inside of the band, so it was no wedding ring. Wait! What the hell, was he even thinking? He had a ring made of more than surely pure gold and he wondered what it was? What was wrong with him? It was not the most urgent, or sensible, or practical question! How that thing had ended up in his pocket and what was going to do with it? Someone must have stolen it and put it in his pocket to get rid of it. Bilbo felt as though he had swallowed a rock that had fallen heavily on his stomach: what if he was accused of the theft? The damn thing must belong to somebody wealthy enough to afford this kind of jewellery, somebody who would not have any scruple to sue him regardless of his innocence and ruin his life. He began to panic, his breath becoming erratic and sweat moistening the palms of his hands. Oh god, he did not want to go to jail, he was not built for surviving there, being a midget. He would end up being stabbed with a toothbrush or worse…

Bilbo forced himself to breathe deeply, gulping slowly lungful of air to sooth his rambling fears. He was a sensible grown-up man, he was to think logically and act as the Baggins he was : the first thing he would be doing the next afternoon would be bringing that ring to the nearest police-station and explain calmly his situation to the police so that they could get that burden off his spirit. This act of good-will would wash him of any suspicion and support his innocence. Until then, he would put the ring back in his envelope and lock it safely in the drawer of his nightstand. Yes, that was a sound way of thinking, good job Bilbo Baggins.

He retrieved a handkerchief from one of his pockets and moped the beads of sweat that dewed on his forehead before resetting the ring back in its Pandora’s box. The sooner he would get rid of it, the better. Bilbo Baggins was no burglar, thank you very much.

*

Samuel Alexeievich Ugenko released long swirling volutes of smoke from his mouth, peering thoughtfully down at the cigarette tucked between two of his pale and slender fingers. Of all his enemies in the whole wide world, the most likely to kill him was surely the cigarette industry, it was a small miracle in itself that having begun smoking at the age of sixteen he had no cancerous tumour devouring his lunges some thirty-six years later. For a fifty-two years old man, he really had no right to complain: he had the heart of a young man, a good blood pressure and no cholesterol at all, the only sign that he was heavy smoke was his hoarse tone of voice. For some people he was even too healthy for their liking and these people would not be against adding a bit of polonium in his morning tea to righting the natural order of things. Some had already tried actually, and the latest one had ended up in deep frozen meat in a Swedish lake. He had to admit that it had been quite amusing to hear him beg for his mercy with his purple lips and his clattering teeth. Ugenko had to smother a rugged chuckle at the resurging memory, it was not nice to laugh at the dead, nobody would protest in their stead. How he hoped that Gerhart would be as entertaining as that poor soul.

Ugenko smirked maliciously as he watched the Thames flow lazily toward the very heart of London; his phone had buzzed just as he had sat on his bench in a lost desert little park, the banks of the river just before him, and he knew perfectly what it meant, no need to bother reading the text he had received. He will host his special guest in a couple of minutes, just the time to finish his cigarette and prepare his little signature.

And just as the last ashes dropped over the gravel between his shining black shoes, he pulled out of an inner pocket of his suit a red squared sheet of rice paper. He began to skilfully fold it with quick precise movements of his fingers, which shaped it in the angular form of a dragon showing its teeth. He smoothed the wings of the dragon then held it before his cold gaze, contemplating his origami with the prideful and appreciative eye of a craftsman assessing the quality of his own work.

He delicately set the paper dragon on the wrought iron bench, next to him, just as he heard approaching footsteps and snippets of a miserable plea. This was such a lovely sound for his delicate ears –the sound of a sweet revenge to wash away his tarnished pride, an aria which brought a new devilish grin on his thin lips, it widened even more when he noticed in the corner of his sight three of his men coming his way, the man he was waiting for firmly held in their strong grips.

“Ah, Gerhart!” he exclaimed jovially, his arms held up as though to hug his weary guest, though his blue piercing eyes betrayed no sign of sympathy of friendliness. “I was just occupying myself while waiting for you. I hope that you have not been mistreated too badly.”

His lips fell in disappointment as he remarked the purplish bruise the man sported on his jaw.

“Oh, they did. My deepest apology, I’d asked them to keep you unarmed, what a pity.”

“Stop playing, Smaug.” Gerhart croaked with a thick German accent. “It’s only amusing if your victim doesn’t know your little tricks. Besides,” the man chuckled sardonically. “I’d never noticed before, but you’re actually a poor actor.”

“You were not this sour when you played along with me, but I guess it is not as pleasant to be given the role of the victim.” Ugenko groaned, his voice low and slow, menacing. “It was remarkably fatuous of you to think you could outwit me, rob me and getting out of it alive. You know me, I don’t take kindly to traitors. Yet you tried.”

Smaug motioned to one of his henchman, and he punched the German in the small of his back, forcing him to kneel.

“I had to do this,” Gerhart panted. “I couldn’t condone what you were about to do. Too many lives are at stakes because of your greed! Do you have any idea of the power held by that ring?”

Smaug closed the distance between him and Gerhart in a few strides, fisted the collar of his crumpled shirt to bring his face closer to his own. The clear flames of his eyes blazing with rage and hatred.

“I know very well the forces I’m playing with, and by now it shouldn’t even be my problem anymore,” he hissed like an angry cobra. “But you and your pitiful consciousness interfered and put me in an uncomfortable position. You made me lose a precious amount of time, even more with that little chase in the streets of London. So, I will go straight to my point: I want what belongs to me, Gerhart. I. Want. My ring. Back.”

The German remained resolutely silent, though Smaug could smell fear on him, see it plainly in his eyes. Ugenko glared down at him, then released his grip on the man’s collar. He sat at his place on the bench, a burning displeasure beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach like splinters in a hearth ready to turn into a brazier.

“You know better than to keep quiet, Gerhart. You know that I will make you speak, even if I have to shatter your knee with a hammer myself.”

“I don’t have it with me anymore.” The German said coldly.

“I would have guessed so without you telling me,” Smaug snapped, his voice as cruel as the bite of a whip. “Otherwise the ring would have already been back at my finger. What I am asking you is where it is.”

Gerhart chose once again to keep his mouth resolutely shut. Smaug cast him a vicious smile which bared his disturbingly white and sharp teeth, like those of a feral predator. Yes, Gerhart knew he would be teared apart by that man, so he braced himself for what was coming.

“You know me well, Herr Holtzfäller. You’re familiar with every single one of my method to break somebody and obtain what I want,” Ugenko began on a suave tone as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket and toyed with it, kindling fugitive sparks.

“But _I_ knew little about you and it couldn’t allow it to go on like this. I had to find your weakness so I could break you. Thus since your miserable treason and theft, I dig a bit in your past and discovered that you were of a rather secretive sort. You never mentioned your ex-wife and your children. She’s lovely, I wonder what a pretty creature like her could have found attractive in you, and the kids a kind of cute, I’d love to pinch their little cheeks. How old is the little Leo, by the way? I am afraid I forgot.”

Smaug saw with a dark satisfaction the face of the traitor crumble and anguish slip on his mask of defiance. Gerhart closed tightly his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to restrain his defeated tears. He felt a harsh nudge in his ribs enjoining him to play along.

“He’s four,” the German finally answered through the lump in his throat.

“Four! They are so sweet at this age,” Smaug replied, satisfied.

“Please Samuel, do not harm them,” the big strong man begged, losing his fight with his tears.

Ugenko feigned an incredulous pain, holding his hand flat on his chest like a bad soap opera diva.

“Me? Hurt children? Who do you think I am? An ogre?”

“A dragon, rather.” Smaug furrowed his brow at this remark. “Alright, I will tell you where to find the ring if you promise to let my family alone.”

“How touching, Gerhart.”

“Promise me!”

“Scout’s honour.”

The German heaved a heavy breath, shaking despite all his experience. He seemed to already regret what he was about to do.

“I gave the ring to a man I crossed in the street. His name is William Robert Baggins, he writes books for children. I slipped the envelope containing the ring in his pocket so he might not even know that he has it. He’s no threat, there is no need to hurt him.”

Smaug nodded slowly, satisfied then dismissed Gerhart with a wave of his hand.

“I hope for you that you said the truth, Gerhart,” Ugenko warned him. “Otherwise, your tears won’t soften my heart, and your family will pay the price of your duplicity in your stead.”

One of the man who had Holtzfäller’s arms in a tight grip quietly retrieved a small knife from an inner pocket of his leather jacket and swiftly plunged the blade between two ribs of the traitor. The German choked on a breath before a hand covered his mouth, smothering a pained cry.

“You’ve betrayed me, Holtzfäller, I cannot trust your loyalty anymore.” Smaug almost crooned. “You surely understand that I have no choice but to get rid of you.”

Gerhart Holtzfäller was carelessly pushed in the water of the Thames to be carried by the flow towards the sea. Smaug followed his shape until it disappeared under the surface of the water, then he sighed contently.

“What are we doing now, Sir?” one of the men asked.

“Find this William Robert Baggins and bring my ring back. I don’t care about what you do of him as long as it doesn’t let any trace.”

Ugenko stood and left, his tall shadow dissolving in the dim light of dusk. The only remnants of his passage was some ashes and the origami still set on the bench.

*

It was almost too late to go out buying a few groceries when Bilbo figured out that he had not all of the ingredient required for his mother’s beef stew recipe. He had to dash out of his flat to go fetch a bottle of red wine, and a handful of carrots and onions and do it quickly before the closing hour of his favourite grocery store. He all but slid in his shoes and slip on his blazer as he closed and locked the door of his flat. He had planned to cook on of his favourite dish, eat it on his couch in front of the television, wrapped in a warm and cosy blanket. There was a rerun of “ _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ ” and he had no intention to miss it, the occasion even warranted the opening a bucket of salt caramel-flavoured ice cream. He knew that it was cliché and kind of pathetic of spending his evening indoor but he couldn’t careless, romantic comedy were his little guilty pleasure.

He was so excited by the perspective of his Hugh Grant fangirl evening that he didn’t even noticed the tall and shape staring at him from the corner of his street like a predator would stare at his prey. The faceless shadow crawled after him in the darkened street at safe distance, never trying to close the final meters between them, merely stalking him without dragging the attention of the other pedestrians. The man was still tracking Bilbo when he came back home with his grocery bag carefully tucked in the crook of his arm and he stayed hidden in the street a long part of the evening picking glimpses of Bilbo from time to time through the window of his kitchen. He observed him peeling the carrots and the onions, swaying softly on the rhythm of a song, pouring himself a mug of hot chocolate later on the evening. He left a bit before midnight when another shadow took his place and resumed his watchful and thorough guard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> First thing first, thank you to those of you who left a kudo, then regarding this new chapter, I prefer warning you it's long, dense, and some passages warrant trigger warnings. So tread carefully.
> 
> Besides, I put on Youtube a "soundtrack" for this fic, the link is just [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_6Q4KKfBeBBq8y5rxAfDEKpFGVxVSIbE)
> 
> A huge "thank you" to [DragonsinGondolin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin) for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> You can still find my tumblr.

Sir Andrew Grey, also known as Pilgrim, by most in the very restricted number of his colleagues and his too numerous foes, was a very sensible man, wise some would dare to say, and his hierarchical superiors had more than once praised his foresight and phlegm in the trickiest situations. His stainless reputation and spotless statement of service had even earned him a title, though Grey found it rather ostentatious, so he might have neglected to add the honorific mention on his business cards. However, in spite of years of experience, he happened to find himself speechless in some occasion and this was precisely one of these.

“Really, Sir. They have accepted our bargain?” he asked to the voice in the speaker, pointedly wanting to be sure he had heard correctly. No need to nurture pointless hopes.

“As surprising as it is, Sir Andrew, yes they have.” The Home Secretary answered. “It seems that once again your insufferable boldness brought you a new victory, another occasion for you to shine in social circles and for your esteemed colleagues to despise you. You should really thank the Russians for your success, though, they must not be that eager that we divulge their nasty little secrets.”

“I’m sure of it, Sir, but I’m mostly surprised that they conceded anything, nonetheless. They tend to be much more…obstinate and less inclined to cooperate.”

“Ever suspicious, Mister Grey.”

“Well, I think that is why I’m so precious to the service of Her Majesty, Sir.”

“Your lack of modesty is aggravating, but I have to admit you’re indeed right: MI-5 wouldn’t be the same without you. Anyway I expect you tomorrow morning at Whitehall for a debriefing of tonight’s meeting. I don’t wish you good luck, you don’t need it. Just try to be kind with Mister Azogov.”

“I cannot promise you anything. Good bye, Sir.”

Sir Andrew hung up before pinching the bony bridge of his nose. He did not like it at all. Call him suspicious, or even a Cold War relic –which he was- but he did not trust the Russians: this was way too easy to be a mere act of goodwill. If they had accepted only after ferocious gruelling negotiations and a fair amount of coaxing, he would not have found it this unnerving.

On the other side of the glass walls of his office, the team of his employees had all forsaken their ongoing tasks, he could read both expectancy and a hint of apprehension in the looks they were addressing him; they must have felt the tension growing in his corporal language throughout the conversation, and now they were wondering what bad piece of news would fall on them like a hailstorm. He sighed raggedly and heaved his poor old body from his far too comfortable leather office chair to walk out of his office and make his announcement.

The second he crossed the doorframe, the whispered conversations died out and only a tense silence remained. The air smelt like freshly made coffee, cheap cologne and anxiety, it was not the most pleasant combination, it was speaking of crisis and uncertainty. Andrew knew he had to release the tension and tell them the good news, in spite of his own uncertainties, they had all worked hard on the case of the lost letters, they deserved to enjoy the fruits of their labours. Andrew took a deep intake of breathe.

“I have just received a phone call from the Home Secretary,” he announced with his low deep voice. “The Russians have accepted our conditions for the return of the letters, Oakenshield will be back home tonight.”

Shouts of joy and cheers fused in the air like firework rockets, but Grey’s face remained as still as the surface of a lake and soon his cold and unmovable composure drew the attention of his employees and their displays of joy faded and turned once more into a serious silence. The silence of an army waiting for orders.

“The return of Oakenshield doesn’t mean that the FSB is not scheming some dark plan,” he resumed sternly, his gnarled hands folded in his back and his grey suit as impeccable as ever. “I want you to be twice more watchful than you usually are; if anything suspicious happens, I want us to be aware of it and to be ready to intervene and put an end to it. As for tonight’s evening, it must be thoroughly organized, expect every possible occurrence and be prepared to any of it.”

The agents gathered before his old grey eyes nodded in perfect synchrony.

“Norbert, I expect you to have eyes everywhere during the meeting and the transfer of Oakenshield to Thames House, do not consider us safe until we are within these walls. Dwayne, you will come with me tonight for the exchange, as a skilled agent and a supportive friend for Thomas. It will be all for now.”

Gandalf looked the little crowd scatter and went purposefully fulfil the tasks they had been assigned, though the zeal of his employees could not dispel the bad premonition that plagued his mood.

“You are worried about Thomas.”

Sir Andrew wondered how a man of Barnaby McFundin’s age and corpulence could be that sneaky. And that obnoxiously accurate and sharp. He looked down at the smaller man: he looked like a gentle grand-father with his white hair and beard and his slight roundness. His usually soft brown eyes rimmed by fanned winkles were peering up at him with a deceiving benevolence: if Grey did not know better, he would have thought him harmless and that mistake would have cost him his life. Barnaby was nearing his fifty-first birthday but he could still shoot a bird perched on a tree right in its tiny heart. In addition to being an efficient agent, he had a sharp mind whose perceptiveness was often uncanny.

“That’s understandable,” he added as Grey remained mute, his hint of Scottish accent adding to his charming quality. “The lad stayed there for eight years, I highly doubt that he is in a very good shape, physically or otherwise.”

Grey nodded thoughtfully, combing his short grey beard and whiskers.

“The Russians are not known to take kindly to foreign spies on their territory, it’s a small miracle in itself that he’s still alive,” the old spy mumbled. “He will need all the help possible in the future. How his family is doing?”

“His parents died shortly after he got captured, his younger brother had a motorcycle accident last year and is stuck in coma since then. And I doubt his younger sister will be this happy to see him pop on her doorstep this evening after eight years of thinking him dead.”

“So he has nowhere to go,” Gandalf said, scowling.

“Nowhere,” Barnaby confirmed. “His flat has been sold by his family and if I remember well, all of his things sent to his sister.”

“Alright,” Gandalf sighed, massaging is brow behind which a dreadful headache was already threatening, like a faraway thunderstorm. “Find him somewhere to stay until he finds a flat of his own, he’ll need a new ID card and bank account, can I trust you to take care of this? And you’d better ring Doctor Griffiths for tonight, I am sure Thomas will need a check-up.”

“Very well,” Barnaby said firmly, though he slightly squinted his at Grey.

Not really wanting to stay any longer under the assessing glare of his employee, Sir Andrew was about to turn around when Barnaby’s hand gentle caught the sleeve of his coat.

“Don’t feel responsible for what happened eight years ago, it’s in the past. You did everything you could back then and he knew it was a risky mission, I’m certain that he doesn’t hold a grudge against you.”

“I was his mentor, of course I was responsible. And Thorin would definitely hold a grudge against me, if you think otherwise, it means you don’t know him all that well.”

That said, Barnaby let Grey’s sleeve go and the old spy wearily went back to the shelter of his glass-walled office, feeling more and more like an antiquity in its showcase. Maybe it was time to plan his retirement before he began to catch dust.

*

Norbert Rinsky –or Nori for friends- peered discretely over the screen of his computer to scrutinize Barnaby and Andrew faces, and catch scraps of their conversation. His mother spent half of his childhood telling him that it was highly rude to eavesdrop someone else’s private conversation, and he never quite grew out of this bad habit. If only she knew that her two eldest son had made their job of spying on other people’s life…Fortunately Dominic had managed to find a fitting lie to sooth her worries and conceal their true professional activity, though he suspected that his true purpose was to prevent their younger brother to venture in the dangerous realm of espionage as well. Imagining his baby brother, so fond of his pencils and paintbrush, doing something as reckless as following a terrorist half amused, half terrified him. Dori had done the wisest thing.

The conversation between Norbert’s bosses found its end, and he quickly retreated and plastered on his face a carefully crafted mask of professionalism and began to type on his keyboard.

“Who do you think you are kidding?” Boadach asked from the neighbouring desk, a knowing smile curving his lips and his damned ridiculous moustache and goatee.

“Shouldn’t you be translating some communication in whatever language you can speak?” Norbert asked tartly. “Because otherwise, I really fail to see the use of a linguist in the team.”

Boadach Furrell raised a sarcastic eyebrow at him that disappeared behind the curtain of black locks falling on his brow.

“Well, I was actually waiting for you to forward the messages you managed to intercept yesterday evening, but you were too busy playing the nosy gossipy employee.”

Nori blushed, chocking on his word as they tried to escape his mouth, which brought even more blood on his face to match the auburn hue of his hair.

“I’m not gossipy!” he finally managed to grumble childishly.

Boadach hmmed, absentmindedly, visibly not convinced, and resumed whatever translation he was working on.

“If so, why are you always the one peddling gossip at coffee-break time?” the linguist quipped.

Nori snarled something foul about his Irish origins which made him howl a laugh, before he sent him the expected files. They went back to work afterward, translating and rummaging in the mess of information that was the Internet, all in a companionable silence. Although they spent a lot of time bickering over foolish reasons, Norbert Rinsky and Boadach Furrell were more friends than colleagues and that from the first day of Boadach at Thames House. Bofur was cheeky, bold –almost crass- and his tongue was as sharp as his mind, Nori had immediately liked the sassy nature of his new colleague.

“Nori, I was wondering…” the Irishman began and as Norbert remained quiet, tacitly inviting him to go on. “I work here for five years, so I guess it’s normal that I don’t know but…”

“Who is Oakenshield?”

“Well…yeah. Today was the first time I’ve heard this name.”

“We usually don’t talk about him… His name is Thomas Durin. He was –is- one of the best field agent the MI-5 has ever known. He was able to blend in any environment without being noticed, doing his mission with as minimum casualties as possible and walk away without being noticed or caught. It was truly baffling, something in him made people trust him and follow his lead. His speciality was Eastern Europe and if I recall correctly he can speak Russian, Polish, Czech, Serbian and German.”

“That’s impressing. And I know what I’m speaking of.”

“The man has been taught by the best.”

Nori tilted his head in the general direction of the glass-walled office at the end of the room.

“You mean Andrew?”

Nori gave him a confirming nod, then slowly he leaned over his desk toward Bofur.

“Gandalf took Tom under his wing when he was just a rookie, he taught him every trick of the trade,” he hushed conspiratorially, though Bofur frowned, looking confused.

“Alright, but if he is such a whiz, how come that he got captured?”

“That remains a mystery which bothered us all for quite a long time: Thomas had never made any blunder before. He must have been given by a mole, there is no other explanation, the problem is that we never managed to find out who the mole was.”

Nori leaned back and sat up straight in his chair, regaining a calm composure.

“I am sure that it will be quite a thing to meet him,” Boadach said, sleeking distractedly the tip of one of his whiskers

“Yes, but maybe not what you are expecting,” a harsh Welsh-accented voice groaned right behind them.

“What do you mean, Glyn?”

“Tom spent eight years in a Russian jail, I would be surprised if he came back with all his limbs and appendages,” the Welsh redhead clarified. “Anyway you should make an effort to be a little more discrete when you are chitchatting. Speaking of Thorin brings back painful memories for some of us.”

Glyn Griffiths tilted his short wiry beard of red hair toward Dwayne’s desk. The massive agent sat still on his chair, his wide hands lying motionlessly on his lap and his eyes peering in front of him but without focusing on anything.

“Oh,” Norbert merely said.

“Yes: oh,” Glyn muttered sternly. “So mind what you’re saying.”

“Dwayne was with Thomas at Moscow when he got caught, but unlike Thorin, he managed to come back safe and sound.” Nori explained in reply to the inquisitive look in Boadach’s green eyes.

The Irishman turned a sympathetic gaze toward Dwayne then back to his work.

“Oh,” he repeated forlornly.

*

The hours passed by slowly and Sir Andrew found himself lost in his memories each time he tried to focus on the paperwork spread on his desk. More than once, he read the same paragraph over and over without even noticing it, the words refusing to deliver their meaning. His pen remained more than once hanging over a sheet of paper which required his signature, while he glared at his own reflection on the glass panel which stood before his desk.

It was with this very pen that he had signed the condolence letter sent to Thomas’ family. It had been a cold formal letter, almost matter-of-factly, with ready-made formulas like “I truly am sorry for your loss”, and Andrew had hated it. He had hated not being allowed by procedure to express his affliction with more sincerity and words that were his own. He had taught Thomas Durin everything he knew and liked him a bit like the son had never had the opportunity to have, and that letter had not done him justice.

At the time he had thought that he would never see Thomas again and that he was already dead, even if he were to die alone in a dark cell months later. I had spent sleepless nights staring at the walls of his study, in his lonely home, imagining the dreadful tortures that Thomas must have been enduring and hoped that Thomas had been smart enough to find a way to put an end to this ordeal himself. No amount of whisky could ever erase those dreadful thoughts, imprinted, seared on his spirit.

He had mourned Thorin, as he had other agents thereafter, but it had never been the same and himself had never been the same. They said that he had turned a bit bitter and certainly rougher, he had been called heartless, an emotionless procedural machine. When he had learnt from Pavel Ivanovich Azogov that Thomas was still alive a few months ago, it had been like a punch in the pit of his stomach: it had been violent and painful, it had left him breathless. As always he had been suspicious, his first thought had been that it was way too good to be and that they were dangling the hope of getting Oakenshield back before his eyes to make him agree to anything. Or knowing Azogov’s vicious nature, it might just be by pure pleasure of seeing him suffer. In any case, that had been a miserable and despicable attempt, even coming from a man with as little morality as Azogov, but the man had failed to make him bend under the weight of his regrets and culpability. If he learnt that all of this had only been a masquerade, he would make the Russian bitterly regret toying with his feelings and trying to trick him.

Entertaining these thoughts actually only awakened a ferocious will of snatching Thorin out of Azogov’s claws, hurting the man’s pride in the process, and it would be with a smug and dark smile that Grey would look Azogov right in his pale eyes and face this evening as he would get his agent back. His anger would have the taste of victory and revenge.

Somebody knocked at the door of his office and Sir Andrew Grey shook himself out of his reverie to invite them to enter. The balding skull of Dwayne McFundin and his short-cut hair came in. Grey noticed that the muscles of his jaw were strangely tensed and his wide brow more creased than usual.

“Sir, it is almost time to go,” he said, his voice low and solemn.

Sir Andrew glanced at his pocket watch and saw it was half past six.

“Alright, gather everyone for the last briefing.”

Dwayne nodded mutely and disappeared swiftly, letting Grey alone. It was the moment of truth. He sighed raggedly before adjusting his tie, picking his coat and folding it on his arm, then he stood up to go meet with his staff. It seemed that everyone had worked harder than him for once, for all of his employee were already waiting for him. He felt like he was going to battle, every face bore such an expression of gravity.

“Well, its time ladies and gentlemen. Let us check for the last time that everything is settled as it should be. Dominic?”

Norbert’s elder brother stepped forward.

“Boadach and I have analysed thoroughly the Russians’ communications, it seems that they are genuine for once in their life and have no intention of playing us a trick.”

“Nonetheless, the snipers are on their way and will be surrounding the meeting place,” Barnaby specified. “The Eagles would shoot Azogov, if he doesn’t stick to the plan.”

Grey nodded appreciatively, he could always rely on Barnaby to anticipate of his expectations, meet -and even exceed- them.

“Glyn, what of you?”

“My brother is already here, ready to take care of Thomas as soon as you are back. He knows what to expect, so nothing to worry in this area.”

“Very well. Nor-” Sir Andrew began only to be interrupted by the computer engineer.

“I will be following you during the transfer with the security cameras, if I notice anything odd, Glyn will inform you with your earpiece.”

“So, we are ready. Dwayne…” Andrew trailed off.

The crowd scattered, taking dutifully their posts and he was about to leave, followed by Dwayne, when Byron –Boadach cousin- made a step forward and inclined his head toward Sir Andrew.

“You asked us to keep you posted if anything… uncommon were to happen,” he rumbled lowly with his thick Irish accent. “It has likely nothing to do with our current… case but I thought it wise to inform you that the body of a former agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst has been fished out of the river maybe an hour ago. It was not an accident, if you see what I mean.”

“How?” Grey asked, his tone very serious.

“Stabbed.”

Sir Andrew ran long fingers in his grey hair. It really was not the best timing for a new case, and Grey had the feeling that this one will be especially tricky. A dead foreign spy dying on British soil was trouble, a huge diplomatic time bomb ready to burst at their face if they were to fail to clarify the circumstances of his death.

“Though I loath to postpone this matter, we have no time for this for the time being, but as soon as Oakenshield is back here safe and sound tell Nori about it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

*

Thomas was not sure of where he was going or what was happening, and honestly, he could not care less, even if he tried. Whatever they intended to do to him this time, it could hardly be worse than what he had lived through the past few years. He had been taken from his cell early this morning –or at least he was sleeping, he was never really sure of the time of the day- and a rough and smelling bag had been put on his head. He was told nothing, was not beaten, not insulted, just tossed on the cold metallic floor of a vehicle, some kind of van most likely. Shortly after, the loud purr of the motor had resounded in his ears and they had departed. He knew something was happening but he did not matter to him. Nothing had mattered the last years, and he had learnt that himself did not matter.

During the first months he had spent in captivity, he had had the naivety of thinking that he would not be thrown over by his friends, his colleagues, his country. He had endured bravely sleep deprivations, electroshocks and even waterboarding. He had proudly and stubbornly remained quiet, refusing to answer any kind of question, he merely glared brazenly at his tormentors, which earned him more than a frustrated punch, slap or insult. In fact, he couldn’t even remember when his hopes began to crumble, those days tended to merge in a hazy endless nightmare, so long that it was impossible for him to distinguish a day from another.

And suddenly he had remembered something that Andy had told him long ago, when he was nothing more than a rookie wanting to serve his country: “if you got caught, nobody will ever try to help you, because helping you would be admitting your very existence and the leaders of this nation would rather give away the contents of their bank accounts to commoners than doing this. Being caught is being dead for the rest of the world.” It might be as this moment that he lost all hope of coming back home, seeing his parents grow old, and his nephew becoming men, perhaps even finding somebody to love.

He had fallen apart step by step but had never given any answer to the interrogators, ever faithful toward a country that had denied him any help. He had broken down more than once, crying and sobbing like a toddler, begging for mercy but receiving none.

He came to hope that one day they would let his head a bit too long underwater and that he would finally drown, but it had never happened and he knew it would never. He had quickly come to think that if he could not receive death, then the only remaining option was to give himself death. So one day, after a very tedious interrogation that had left him with a gashed eyebrow, he had decided to try his luck. He had tied his sheets in knot and tried to hang himself from a venting grid, only to be saved in extremis by his gaoler. Thorin remembered the tight grip of arms hugging his legs and lifting him to release the pressure his improvised rope had been exerting on his throat. In the middle of the blur caused by the lack of oxygen, he had heard a voice roaring for help, before his sight and hearing faded to black, he thought the voice begged him to hold on and stay alive.

He had failed even his death. That had made him realise that his misery would never come to an end, that he would never escape it. At first, despair had caught him and had begun to devour him from the inside, turning him into an empty shell. He had had some sudden outbursts of rage, the feeling of betrayal and the resentment against MI-5 -or Andrew, more generally the rest of the world- stinging him like a burn.

He must have fallen asleep during the travel, for he thought that he had heard the buzzing motors of a plane. It was a silly idea, however in some hidden part of his scarred mind, somewhere deep in his heart a sparkle of hope flared in its ashen nest. Thomas shuddered at the thought of a rekindling hope; he should not hope, it was only bound to be disappointing and he would be brought even deeper down in despair. But before he could examine any further his dire situation, he sank soon again in a restless slumber.

“Get up!” a voice barked in Russian, waking Thorin up with a start. It took him a few seconds to remember why he couldn’t see and what was happening.

“Where am I going?” Thomas asked just for the sake of asking.

“Shut up!” the voice answered, but the usual slap did not come, instead an iron grip closed tightly around his arm.

Thomas got up from the hard floor without resisting and rather effortlessly, proving that despite the years of captivity, he was still fit. Working out was actually one the only thing he had to kill time. He was actually used to spending two hours per day doing push-ups, pull-ups and crunches, and when he was he was reading every book he could find. The hand led Thomas without a word until it shoved him on the back seat of a car.

“Sit still!”

He did as he was told and remained quiet, as usual. The car set out and Thomas leaned back stiffly against his seat. He was now really confused, he had no idea of why he sat in a car instead of lying in a van, in fact he was feeling clueless and he hated that. He thought that nothing could surprise him and there it was, besides he did not like the perspective of something unexpected and possibly even more painful that what he had lived through until then. He tried to hide his quaking hands by enwinding his fingers on his lap, fearing that the clicking of the iron cuffs at his wrists would betray his anxiety: spies were like tigers, they can smell the fear of their victims, and like predators they ruthlessly tear apart the weakest ones.

After several excruciatingly long minutes, the car began to slow down, the wheels crunching over gravels, then stopped. One of the doors opened and snapped close. A heavy silence settled in the car, only troubled by his ragged respiration. The blood in his veins sounded way too noisy to his liking and he wondered for a fleeting moment if the other passengers of the car could hear it too. All of a sudden, the door on his side opened and cool air ran in, making him shiver as he wore only a light cotton t-shirt. He was yanked out of the car and the bag blinding him was removed from his head.

At first, he was completely lost, blinking though it was dark, breathing too quickly; he was on the open air, in the middle of a city only lit by the orange glow of lampposts. His eyes roamed over the banks of a river which reflected the blurred lights like a shattered mirror, and then he recognized the distant form of the City and the town where he grew up: he was back in London. Thorin felt an overwhelming bliss explode in his chest, warming his too cold breast, he closed briefly his eyes only to relish the feeling of wind on his face and in his messy curls. He could hear the faint buzzing of traffic, a faraway police siren and the low humming of a passing boat on the Thames. But his panting breath really got stuck in his tightening throat when his blue eyes met grey and old ones.

“Andrew?” Thomas gasped.

The eyes studied him coldly, sternly, as if they were looking for something. But Thorin was too stunned to speak, he couldn’t believe it: he was back home. After all these years, he was back home, and his mentor was standing right in front of him. He could feel his eyes stinging as he fought back the tears that threatened to roll down his cheek to get lost in his bushy beard.

Andrew turned his eyes toward the man that was gripping painfully Thorin’s arm. He was very tall –around Thorin’s own height- and pale, bald except from thin very short blond hair which made a crown on the scarred scalp. The muscles of his squared jaw were tensed, showing his anger and his reluctance to let Thomas go, if the glacial stare he sent to old Grey was any indication. Thomas knew this man, he knew him very well –too well- and seeing him again made bile erupt from his stomach. How much he had wished to never see Pavel Ivanovich Azogov again.

“I think we had a deal, Pavel,” Andrew smirked smugly, managing nonetheless to look polite and friendly, in spite of the obvious ferocity in his tone.

Azogov bared and gritted loudly his teeth, reminding Thorin of a shark, then he all but tossed him forward, right in Andrew’s arms.

“You may keep him, Pilgrim, he had never been of any use!” the Russian snarled before opening one of the doors of his car.

“Always a pleasure, Pavel.” Andy said softly before the car set out and disappeared in the night.

Thorin released the breath he was holding, a hand squeezed his shoulder and he turned his head to meet a small but genuine smile on his mentor’s lips.

“Welcome home, dear fellow, though I must say that you look positively horrendous,” his old friend said. “And smell horrendous too,” he added after a few moments.

Thomas chuckled hoarsely, still too giddy to take offense of his words.

“You’re the one to talk, old wizard, you fit your name, now.”

Andy’s smile widened, until his gaze met something above Thomas’ shoulder. Thorin turned around and found himself faced to a very familiar face, then two thick strong arms wrapped themselves around his ribcage and crushed it in a tight hug.

“I can’t believe that you are still in one piece, you rascal!” Dwayne chuckled softly. “We didn’t dare to hope anymore.”

“Me neither,” Thomas replied with a slightly coarse voice. “Now, if you would be kind enough to let me breath.”

Dwalin let go of him, a half-hidden smile still curving his tight lips, as he patted Thorin’s broad shoulder.

“I think gentlemen that it’s high time for us to take our leave now that we are done here. We’ll have plenty of time to chat later.”

Thomas spent the whole journey to Thames House peering eagerly through the window, marvelling at the sight of London, rediscovering the city that he used to know like the back of his own hand. He found himself moved by the mere sight of sign indicating a nearby underground station or a slight traffic-jam, he only realized how much he had lost track of the world, of normal life. Andrew and Dwayne were tactful enough not to bother him during his reacquainting staring, and Thomas was grateful for it: he did not think that he was ready to answer any question for the time being, and not for a long while if could help it. In fact, quite surprisingly, he broke the silence himself.

“I guess my parents didn’t take well the news of me being captured, or whatever version you gave them, very well… How are they?”

For a fleeting moment, the only sound Thorin could hear was the light hum of the motor, but he was sure that Andrew and Dwalin must be silently exchanging significant looks.

“They are dead, Tom. I genuinely am sorry for your loss,” Grey sighed earnestly.

Thomas hung his head, dumbstruck. He remembered his childhood, his loving, ever supportive parents, the treats his mother used baked for his siblings and him, the booming laugh of his father when they played together, and he wondered he had begun to feel this much like a stranger living somebody else’s life; it was so surrealistic. He had stayed away for too long, and now he came home again only to discover that the world had not waited for him to revolve, and that his parents were dead. A gaping rift opened in his chest, threatening to swallow him alive in a vertiginous void.

“And my siblings?” he asked shakily, bracing himself and blinking away the wetness fogging his sight.

“Frederic had a motorcycle accident last year,” Dwayne groaned bleakly. “He has not awoken from coma yet, if he ever wakes up. As for Desiree, well she is coping as well as she can, her husband died of a precocious stomach cancer.”

“The boys?”

“Two little troublesome teenagers they are now.”

Thorin turned his head so quickly that he was sure that it warrant him a stiff neck later on. He blinked owlishly at Dwayne who cast him a worried gaze in the glass of the rear mirror.

“How long was I away?” he asked abruptly, suddenly realizing that when he had left, Philipp and Kilian were respectively six and four years old.

“You have no idea, dear fellow?” Andrew asked, puzzled.

He felt a terrible apprehension gripping his heart in cruel claws and squeezing it. He dreaded the answer that the Andrew was about to give him, even more when he read the grief in his now old grey eyes.

“How long?” he asked once more, almost pleaded.

“Eight years.”

It felt like a slap on his cheek, and he found himself staring blankly at Andrew, utterly haggard. A shiver ran along his spine, it meant that he was now thirty-eight years old, nearly a decade of his life was missing, being ripped off of his story. It was rather ironic because he would have never guessed that it had been that long, he would have bet that he spent at most five years locked in his cell.

“Eight years,” he parroted blankly. “What will happened to me, now?”

“You served well and honourably Thomas, and after what you went through, nobody had the right to expect anything from you again. You deserve some peace of mind and a generous compensation for your good service and loyalty, or, if you still want to work for us, a long break to mend your wounds. The choice is yours to make, but don’t worry nobody will push you to give an answer right now.”

Thorin nodded gratefully, then he resumed his observation of the passing city, drowning himself in the turbulent flow of the lively streets, but with a new sadness in his eyes now.

 

When they arrived at Thames House, they found the whole section waiting for them and clapping enthusiastically. Still completely lost, Thomas let himself being patted on the shoulder, clapped on the back or pulled in tight embraces, sometimes responding with a hug of his own. He saw familiar faces smiling to him, he saw their lips moving phrasing words he could not hear or understand, but he complaisantly accepted to play his part and plastered a tired smile on his chapped lips, though the smile never reached the corners of his eyes. Time had passed for them too, Barnaby’s hair and beard and turned white as snow while Dwayne’s wild mane had fallen, baring his skull which he had entirely shaved. Glyn showed him proudly his wedding ring and photographs of his wife and son on his cell-phone, and he learnt that Owen’s hearing had dropped dramatically after an explosion as the physician examined him.

Such an uproar… Thorin felt out of step, the world he knew had vanished, replaced by a new one whose rules and conventions had already changed during his captivity. Everything seemed to go faster, always letting him lagging behind and being tossed back and forth by the twirling of events.

“Lad?” Barnaby asked him softly, as though he was afraid to startle him. “We are going to bring you somewhere you’ll stay for a little while until we find you a new home.”

Thomas nodded absentmindedly.

“Perhaps you want to refresh a bit before we go?...”

Then, it hit him, he could barely remember the last time he had a proper shower, he must have get used to his own scent during all those years in prison, but it was surely not so for the others. He suddenly yearned for a bar of soap and warm water to get rid of that dirty feeling clinging to his skin like dried mud. Without a word, Thomas took the direction of the restrooms. He found it empty and almost disgustingly clean, sanitized with its rows of crisp white cold and hostile tiles glittering in the crude white light of faintly buzzing neon-tubes on the ceiling. Thorin found the nearly total silence soothing, the coolness of the air calmed his overheated skin.

He slowly walked toward one of the sinks on the far end of the restroom and for the first time in a long time, Thomas met his own reflection on a mirror; the eight past years suddenly weighted even more on his shoulders: his hair had grown longer than they ever had before, reaching now his shoulder blades, they were wiry and unkempt, mingled with a few silver streaks around his temples. His gaunt cheeks were covered by a bushy black beard which hid partially his thin lips while his cheekbones looked even more noticeable. His brow and the skin between his eyebrows was creased, covered by lines of worry and pain. But the part of his body he barely recognized were his eyes, they had kept the same clear shade of blue, but their gaze was so different from the gaze he had seen every day since he could remember. While they had always burnt with a stubborn determination and a wild energy, they were henceforth unfocused, tired, sad, and the light that animated them was tarnished.

Thorin sighed deeply; maybe he needed some time to shake himself from the apathy he had buried his mind into to protect his sanity. Certainly it would be preposterous to expect to feel alright after having spent nearly a decade locked in a cell somewhere in Russia.

The water flowing from the open tap was pleasantly cool under his fingers, Thorin cupped his hands and splashed the water he collected on his face, rubbing gently his skin. Droplets clung to his eyelashes and beard before rolling on his skin like tears. He took off his black worn-out t-shirt before taking it off and tossing it on the tilled floor, next to him.

He was thinner than he thought to be, so much so that his ribs protruded under his pale skin, which made the proportions of his body seem somewhat uneven, almost grotesque in comparison to his thick biceps, the abdominal and pectoral muscles hidden under the hair creeping on his belly before fanning on his chest.

“Interesting tattoo,” Andrew said softly behind him, near the door, startling Thorin out of his examination. “I don’t remember you having it…”

Thorin frowned at Andy’s reflection in the mirror in front of him, he was standing straight, his hands folded in his back, his face and his eyes unreadable.

“A little souvenir from Russia,” he smirked sourly, feeling a repressed anger building up in his chest. “It’s part of the culture in Russian prisons to get a tattoo, it creates bounds. Besides, it takes less place in a suitcase than a balalaika and brings less problems at customs than vodka.”

Thomas ran his hand under the faucet and rubbed it on his chest, then under his armpits, letting Andrew scrutinizing the two black geometrical ravens whose wings, heads and claws spread on his shoulder blades, each facing a different direction.

“Why two ravens?” Gandalf asked politly.

“They are Huginn and Muninn, Odin’s messengers, they travel throughout the world and come back to their master, whispering at his ear what they’ve seen.”

“Rather fitting…”

“Did you want to tell me something, Andy?...” Thorin asked, his irritation beginning to show in his tone.

For the very first time of his life, Thomas saw something which looked almost like regret cross the face of Andrew Grey, the Pilgrim, the most faithful Secret Agent at Her Majesty’s secret service.

“Thomas, I…”

“Let me rot in Russia? Would have preferred me dead to save you the bother of treating with Moscow?”

“Listen, you have every reason for being furious, but that’s the ministry’s poilicy, Thori-“

“Don’t call me like that,” he snapped harshly. “You have lost this right when you gave up on me as though I was a liability. I deserved a bit more from you.”

Grey massaged slowly his winkled brow while Thorin brusquely dried his chest with a towel before pulling his t-shirt back on.

“You knew the rules of the game, Thomas: if you’re caught, you’re on your own against the rest of the world,” Grey finally said.

“How ironical coming from you, you had never bothered by the rules before, how many times have broken them without a second mind?”

“Tom, I did try everything in my power to help you, but I was tied hand and foot!”

“Then you should have tried harder?” Thorin snarled at his face before he slipped past his mentor to join Dwayne and leave with him.

 

They stayed quiet a long while during the trip to the safe house that Barnaby had picked up for him. Thorin felt exhausted, as if every quantum of energy he had had been sucked out of the marrow of his bones; he rested his temple against the soothing coolness of the window, trying to ignore the tension he had almost instantly noticed in Dwayne’s hands that were currently gripping the wheel and blanching at the knuckles.

“Tell me about you, Dwalin,” he demanded, his voice a low sleepy rumble. “What have you been doing these last eight years?”

“They are not many, those who keep calling me like that.”

“And who keeps doing that?”

“Balin, my parents, Dis and the boys, and…”

His voice trailed off dreamily, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, half hidden by his greying whiskers. Thorin marvelled at the hint of tenderness that had crept on the sullen face of his lifelong friend.

“I met somebody, Thorin. Not very long ago, a few months actually.”

A blush reddened Dwayne’s cheek as tension flood out of him, he even let go a light chuckle.

“His name is Oliver, he’s Dominic and Norbert’s younger brother. They know nothing about it…yet, or at least nobody at work does, and I intent it to remain like this for a while…”

“You’re aware that they’re going to skin you alive, once they’ll learn about you and him, reassure me. Dominic could shut up about his precious little brother, how sweet and talented he was.”

“You’re not particularly helping, Thorin.”

“That was not my intention, so when they find out, don’t expect me to support you, I know better than to mess with Dori,” he commented to add.

“You traitor.”

They laughed together, and it felt as easy as it once was. Dwalin must have felt that Thorin was in a better mood than when they had left Thames House, for he finally phrased a thought that seemed to have plagued him for a long while.

“It should have been me…” he grumbled shyly. “If I had not…panicked…you…”

“Dwayne, you don’t have to dwell on it, it’s in the past. If you keep poking at it, it’ll only fester.”

“I know…Though, I can’t help but think that our places should have been traded.”

Thorin found nothing to answer. It was true that he didn’t begrudge Dwalin anything, if anyone was to bear the guilt of that failure and face the consequences, it was Andrew.

“You know, I can give you Dis’ address. She certainly won’t be happy to see you if you ring at her door, but if you’re not ready to confront her and even if it’s only to see the boys from afar...”

“I’d like that, yes.”

Dwayne parked before a red-brick, very innocent and dull-looking building, its façade only lit by a couple of lampposts. They stayed almost a whole minute looking outside at the dark windows and balconies.

“I’ll ring you tomorrow morning, only to know how you’re managing. I don’t think that your debriefing will be before the day after tomorrow, but if you want me to fetch you and drive you somewhere in the meantime…”

“Na, I think I’ll survive a couple of minutes in the Tube.”

Dwayne nodded and drop a key ring in the palm of his hand, before Thorin climbed out of the car.

“And, Dwayne?”

The gigantic man, looked up at him, meeting his mischievous grin.

“Will I be granted the honour of being introduced to your boyfriend before your gruesome death?”

Dwalin barked a toning laugh.

“Whenever you want, as long as you don’t try to steal him from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have appreciated this chapter, do not hesitate to let a kudo and/or a comment, it helps me getting better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge "thank you" to [DragonsinGondolin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin) for beta-reading this chapter and his precious insight.
> 
> The "soundtrack" for this fic has been edited, the link is just [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_6Q4KKfBeBBq8y5rxAfDEKpFGVxVSIbE)
> 
> You can still find my tumblr.

Waking up and pulling himself out of bed had been an ordeal; sleep had eluded him until late in the night, leaving him exhausted and miserable once morning came. He had turned over and over, punching his pillow and growling in frustration, but each time his lids had shut over his tingling eyes, dreadful images had sneaked inside his mind, swirling in the darkness. He could almost feel the biting cold of the water his head had been plunged into burning the skin of his face and invading his throat but refusing to flood his lungs. So he had had to summon all his willpower in order to force himself out of his bed, just when the darkness of the night had begun to fade to a deep and velvety blue, and the clouds shrouding the horizon to be chased away.

It had required two mugs of black coffee –one of the things he had dearly missed- but he was now slowly emerging from the haze of tiredness, though he knew it would not keep the soreness in his eyes at bay for very long. He had little, if not nothing, to do, Oin had told him to get as much rest as possible, but Thomas did not feel in the mood to sit idly in this tiny flat and watch episodes of Top Gear. It had never been in his temperament of staying still for too long, he was an energetic man –or at least he used to be energetic, he currently felt like lifting his mug of coffee to his lips was an athletic feat. He had remained confined in a small dimly lit cell for eight years, it was more than enough, he ought to move on, to get reacquainted with London, with life in general. He actually planned on taking the Tube and go downtown shopping, or just wander around, eat something really greasy and unhealthy. Besides, his hair really needed cutting, the shaggy caveman style was a bit out of mode. All in all, the point of the whole exercise was pretending that everything was just fine and, well…moving on.

Thomas opened the wardrobe in his bedroom and found out that as per usual Barnaby had definitively though about everything; a few cloths had been let in the bedroom for him so that he could walk in the street without looking and smelling like a tramp. He picked a simple white shirt, a pair of jeans, and a leather jacket, before having a short shower. He let the water rolling along his spine, arms and legs, soaking his hair, he tilted his head toward the shower head and let the warm water and steam cradling him. Feeling impregnated with this soothing warmth, he tied a towel around his hips and stepped out of the shower.

Standing before the mirror of the bathroom once dressed, he tied his black mane of hair in a loose ponytail. It would be the very first time in eight years that he would walk freely in the street, pass by normal people who led a normal life and had normal concerns. He would never admit it out loud, but he dreaded that moment where he would cross the threshold of his door and be in the open. He was afraid of being out there, without anything to shield him from harm, he would feel as vulnerable and naked as a new born.

He smirked at his own reflection, chuckling sourly. How did they manage to turn him into a reclusive mess, he was terrified by the mere idea of stepping out of his door. Thorin wondered when he had stopped being Thomas Durin. Once upon a time, he had been a self-confident man, some would have said arrogant, but he had had good reasons to be so sure of himself: he had always been clever, athletic and handsome. All he had ever had to do was flashing a charming smile to have anyone he had wanted –woman or man. Everything had been effortless. But today what remained of this man? A shattered wreck of a body and shards of a mind.

Maybe he would never be whole again, but lurking in a dark flat with his doubts and the remnants of his past self would not help him mending his wounds. The first thing to do was to get rid of these fears before they took root in him, to moult and leave the last Thomas Durin behind. He embraced this sudden surge of willpower like an old friend, a reassuring sign that some bits of himself were still intact; he did find that comforting, even if only his stubbornness had remained.

*

Dominic dropped a heavy binder on his younger brother’s desk, the banging sound that resulted had the much satisfying expected effect of startling Norbert out of his slumber. His tousled auburn hair-crowned head shot up from the crossed arms where it previously lay.

“Wake up, Nori!” Dori ordered him sternly, glancing disapprovingly at the marks his spiral notebook had left on his right cheek.

“What time is it?” Nori mumbled sleepily, his hazel eyes still half-closed.

“Almost eight,” Dori ignored the unhappy moan that escaped Norbert. “Have you been staying up all night?”

“Mostly,” Nori whined. “I had a job to finish and I must have lost track of time.”

Dori pursed his thin lips, Nori could read in his elder brother’s eyes the signs of a coming hurricane which foretold a tell-tale scolding.

“At least ring Ori the next time you have to stay at work, he worried a lot when he didn’t see you come back yesterday.”

His younger brother groaned in acknowledgment as he buried his face in his hands, rubbing his palms against his eyelid. Nori had spent most of the night digging in the life of Gerhart Holtzfäller, a case that Bifur had all but shoved in his hands once the whole uproar with Thorin had been over and that he had been about to leave. So he had shrugged his jacket back on his chair, thought forlornly about his bed awaiting him in his room and boot in his computer. The guy was not exactly what Nori would have called a saint, he was a violent fellow with a list of censure from his superiors as long as his arm. Indeed, his very dubious methods were regularly frowned upon, regardless of his exceptional results. Besides the few slaps on the wrist for mistreating suspects, he had been suspected more than once of being generously bribed to turn a blind eye on some activities or being lenient if intervening could not be helped. Nori expected that such a shady fellow would lead a personal life as brutal and chaotic as his professional one, but the man actually led a rather normal private life: he was a faithful husband and a loving father, he basically had every characteristic of the nice neighbour.

However, the most disturbing part of this whole case was that Holtzfäller had no reason to be in London and he was not even due to be here, so what was he doing in a morgue with his lungs full of water and a wound to his stomach? Nori forsake his faithful computer to go prepare himself a much needed cup of coffee, every milligram of caffeine would be more than welcome during the following hours of rummaging on the Internet for crumbs of useful information. Sometimes, he really felt like a prospector stirring the mud, looking for a few gold flakes, but without the gratification of having extracted beauty from its gangue of scum: most of the things Norbert was looking for stank.

Bringing his dose of liquid energy in a cup back to his desk, Nori wondered if it was possible to convince Oin to perfuse him with coffee, then he settled himself in his chair and waited for his colleagues to join him. Though, he did not remained idle meanwhile, so he would be able to hand something tangible to Andy once he would be here, a cup a tea in a hand and a inquiring glitter in his grey eyes. He fought valiantly the sly purring of his computer trying to lull him to sleep, biting his lower lip to jolt him awake once in a while before gulping a new bumper of his coffee.

“Good morning, Norbert,” preluded Sir Andrew, a steaming cup of tea elegantly tucked in his bony hand and his grey beard neatly trimmed. He frowned when he noticed the purplish bags under his eyes. “Short night, I suppose. I hope it was worth the lack of sleep.”

“I hope so too.”

Andrew patted friendlily his shoulder.

“What do you have for me, dear fellow?”

Nori turned slightly his screen toward his superior as the latter perched his glasses on his long nose.

“So, in a nutshell, Gerhardt Holtzfäller was a really, really shady guy, not too keen on playing by the rules: he was an adept of the unorthodox ways to deal with his job and he had been suspected more than once to be bribed by wealthy people to tidy after them –erasing proofs, eliminating annoying witness, the usual. But there is still no clue on the reason for him being in London.”

Grey hummed thoughtfully, his long and thin fingers drumming on his lips. His presbyopic eyes roamed over the room without focusing on anything, if Norbert did not knew better, he would have thought that Andy had been listening to him with only a half-ear. He had that unnerving habit of letting his eyes drift away when he was thinking intensely which often resulted to the irritation of his interlocutors.

“Maybe you have been focusing too much on the why until now. This question is still irrelevant for the time being, what we should be looking for at first is the where and the how. Have a break, sleep a few hours then try to track Holtzfäller’s movements before his death. I want to know who he met before his plunge in the Thames.”

*

Thorin combed back his black hairs with his fingers, finding his locks unsettlingly short, though he had asked the hairdresser to keep a bit of length. He had gotten used to the weight of his mane and he had found himself almost reluctant to part from it, but in the end, it felt like a relief. Maybe he was over interpreting and seeing symbols where there was none, but it was some kind of chain bounding him to his past and he did not want to face this reminder of his captivity conditions each morning in the bathroom, so when he saw in the mirror the glint of scissors nearing his ponytail, he had braced himself and nodded. The light tug of the blades on his scalp had felt odd, then, from that moment, each snip had lifted a weight from his chest, like a release.

He had barely stepped out of the shop that he already realized that he looked once again like a civilized man and not like a grizzly anymore. The very first hint of that change was the looks the people who passed by him casted him; they did not look afraid that he would attack them on a whim, he knew what he was talking about, he had been on the receiving end of these wary glares in the tube an hour earlier. No, now they actually sent them appreciative glances and a few even addressed him shy smiles, he was accepted. He knew perfectly that the change was only superficial, and that he would not solve all his issues only with a trimmed beard, a new hair style and fashionable cloths, that was merely smoke and mirrors meant to lure his kin. Though, he was glad that he could conceal his twisted internal scar-tissues under the guise of an appealing appearance, he despised the idea of displaying on his own face the demons that haunted his lonely moments.

Thorin felt the phone lent to him vibrating in the pocket of his jeans; fortunately Balin had had the foresight of choosing for him an ancient model. He had seen the newest ones here and there and had been startled by the lack of keys: how on earth one was supposed to operate one of these things? Besides their thinness made his tiny Nokia look like a graceless brick. A small envelope flashed on the black-and-white screen next to the pixelated name Dwayne. Dwalin had sent him the address of Dis and the name of the hospital where Frerin was taken care of. Thorin stared thoughtfully at the text. He had just come back home after eight year of captivity, logic stated that he should be eager to see his relatives, his siblings, his nephews, but he had come back only to find out that his parents were deceased and that his younger brother had been laying in a hospital bed for the last couple of months. He felt horribly selfish for it, but he was not really thrilled by the prospect of seeing the still form of his lively brother, and he dreaded the encounter with his sister. He did not know if he had the strength to cope with the rush of feelings which would surge in his fragile mind, he was not very far from the point where the slightest emotional shock could trigger a panic attack. However, he did not erase the text and saved it for times when he would be steadier.

Thorin tucked carefully the phone in his pocket before resuming his first day as Thomas Durin.

*

Nori scowled deeply before swallowing a mouthful of doughnut, the tip of his tongue collecting a bit of powdered sugar caught on the corner of his mouth. He rewound the short sequence shot by a security camera set in Euston Road and clicked on play for the fifth time since he made his little discovery. Something was wrong, but he could not for the life of him put his finger on the detail that was bothering him: the black and white footage showed Holtzfäller walking purposefully in a street and colliding with a short man wearing the most ridiculous garments he had ever seen; seriously what kind of man bellow eighty was still wearing bowties? The German spy caught swiftly the man before he could tumble in the gutter, then exchanged a few sentences before Holtzfäller patted his shoulder as though they were old friends and all but running away. The short man looked confused more than anything, surely wondering what the hell had just happened to him, Nori did not even bother to entertain the ridiculous idea of the little man being a criminal mastermind; he looked like he would squeak in fright at the mere sight of a spider or a mouse and jump on the first stool he could find. So why was he put off by the footage?

“What makes you frown like that?” Dwalin asked as he passed by with a mug of strong-smelling coffee in a hand and a cookie in the other.

“A sleepless night and an enigmatic film from a security camera,” Norbert grumbled, the pastry still coating his palate.

“Care if I have a look?”

“Be my guest,” Nori sighed before rolling slightly away his chair to give some space to his colleague.

Dwalin and Nori replayed the film two times, hunched toward the screen. They agreed that something was definitely odd in the conversation between the two men, but none of them managed to determine what it was that was confusing them. Boadach must have at some point overheard their conversation, for he soon joined them and noticed almost in the instant what they could not name.

“He’s too stiff,” the Irishman uttered.

“Who? The doppelgänger of Matt Smith?” rumbled Dwalin, a tad lost. “The bowtie…” he specified, a blush blossoming on his cheek and bald forehead.

The others made no comment the burly man’s guilty pleasure, and Bofur cleared his throat before turning back toward the screen.

“So, I was saying that the German is too stiff, just look at how he walks, he’s clearly terrified, like a hunt down wild beast, though he does a good job at concealing it, only his body language betrays him and you perceived it, but what put you off is the patting. It’s totally unnatural in his state to have any spontaneous physical contact with a total stranger.”

“So they know each other?”

“No, the shorter one is confused and uncomfortable at the touch. What I’m saying is that it’s not a friendly pat on his shoulder. There, look at his other hand while he’s touching him.”

While distracting the shorter man with this hand, Holtzfäller was sliding what looked like an envelope in the pocket of the man’s blazer.

“It was a diversion,” Nori whispered. “Alright, I print the face of Mister Bowtie-Waistcoat and I go tell Andy we have something.”

As on cue, Gandalf appeared apparently out of nowhere, startling them as per usual. Nori had always found that habit off-putting, Gandalf seemed to smell the breakthroughs like a bloodhound smell game, everywhere trouble happened, you could be sure to find him.

“You wanted to show me something?” he asked perfectly innocently.

“Indeed, we might have found a clue on why Holtzfäller has been confused with a knife block,” Nori announced, once his heart stopped threatening to explode in his ribcage. He motioned his superior to come beside him. “Look at this.”

As the scene was played out once again on the screen, different emotions crossed the usually phlegmatic face of Sir Andrew Grey: at first surprise when the short man appeared on screen, then he frowned when he saw him bump into the German spy and start a conversation. Finally, a cold, barely concealed anger contort the old muscles of his jaw when Nori’s long fingers pointed at the envelope. Such a vivid display of emotions was confusing coming from Andrew, he never showed anything that could be remotely interpreted as a weakness or a mean to reach him and hurt him.

“You know him, right?” remarked Bofur. “That short man…”

Gandalf nodded stiffly, his lips pursed and sealed.

“This is William Baggins, my own godson. I knew his late mother very well and I occasionally drop by to have a cup of tea and share a nice conversation. I hardly see Bilbo getting voluntarily consorting with any unsavoury individual.”

“Wait a minute, have you said Bilbo Baggins?” Nori interrupted, a sudden surge of panic overwhelming him. “Because he might be a friend of my younger brother’s. Is he dangerous?”

Gandalf, who had stayed quiet as though he had not noticed that he was addressed to, his eyes glued to the face of Bilbo Baggins, jerked his head.

“Dangerous? I know Bilbo since the day he’s born, there isn’t an ounce of malice in this man. I’d even say that he’s one of the most oblivious to the dangers of this world man I’ve ever met. So if you’re so worried about the safety of your brother, then phone to your brother and invite yourself at an impromptu tea-party at Bilbo’s flat. We have to discover what the content of this envelope is.”

Dwalin arched a bushy eyebrow.

“Why don’t you phone this fella yourself and ask him about the envelope?”

“Because, first and foremost, he doesn’t know that I’m a spy, besides whatever this envelope may contain, it’s valuable enough to bring somebody to kill Gerhart Holtzfäller and I don’t want any harm to happen to Bilbo.”

“You suspect that we’re not the first ones to have discovered who possesses the envelope, right?”

Gandalf nodded sternly, his thin lips tightly pursed and his eyes glittering like steel.

“We need to have eyes everywhere in Bilbo’s dwelling, so whoever if you are to accompany young Mister Rinsky has to know how to handle and hide cameras.”

*

The dry clicking of the writing machine stopped with a light chime before Bilbo removed the last page of his latest chapter and laid it on the desk blotter to let the ink dry. He stretched his arms above his head, his fingers intertwined, and pulled, which warranted him a most satisfying creak in his shoulders and relieved his knotted muscles. The morning had been satisfyingly productive: the plot was thickening and becoming even darker as Eik and Lilya arrived in the last haven safe from the wolves only to find it empty and forsaken; he was quiet proud of the current result and was fairly certain that it would be his best up-to-date book.

He had worked well, barely noticing the flying of time, so he was almost bewildered to find out that it was nearly eleven; he had well earned a pause and light elevenses. He got up from his chair before heading for the kitchen. Peering through the window, he saw some large clouds running in a deep blue sky, pushed by the wind like wide sails; it was maybe one of the last day of this year which amount of sunlight would be satisfying, so he would as well tend to his little garden this afternoon while he still could. He was fixing himself a sandwich when the phone rang in the living room. Bilbo arched an eyebrow: nobody ever phoned him except telemarketers and…

“Hi, Bilbo,” Ori’s voice greeted him when he put the receiver against his ear. “I hope I’m not interrupting you during your writing session.”

“Not at all, in fact I’ve just decided to call it a morning not five minutes ago.”

“Great. Say, Dwayne has freed his afternoon, so we can spend it together.”

“That is…great, I guess.” He answered, failing to really getting Ori’s point.

“And as I’ve told him a lot about you, he’s quite eager to meet you. So would you be kind enough to bear our company this afternoon for tea?”

Bilbo pouted, glaring half-heartedly at a photograph of Ori and him, the two of them were smiling radiantly to the photographer, whoever it had been, probably one of Ollie’s numerous boyfriends.

“Just admit that you only want to show off your huge bulky boyfriend before my sex-starved eyes.”

“Of course I want to show him off, we’ll be so sweet that you’ll probably fall in an hyperglycaemic coma.”

“Reassure me, please, you aren’t scheming to rekindle my faith in love, are you?” Bilbo groaned grumpily, having the impression of having this conversation with Ori for the hundredth time.

“Bill, I’ve been trying for years and I’ll never stop. I’d push you in the arms of the first sexy gay man I’d run into if I had the intuition he’d be good enough for you”

“All right, I’ll expect you at four. Now excuse me, I have an appointment to the dentist’s to make, I’ll have to have my soon to be cavities treated. And don’t be late, you know that-”

“It’s incredibly rude, I know, Mum!”

“Excuse me,” Bilbo huffed indignantly, almost hearing through the handset his best friend’s eyes rolling in their orbits. “I thought that title was a prerogative only entitled to your eldest brother.”

“…I know, Dad?” Ori corrected hesitantly.

“Better.”

Bilbo had met Oliver Rinsky thanks to Eli five years prior, when _The House Under the Hill_ had been about to be published, and had taken a liking to him the second they had shaken their hands. Bilbo’s book, as it was destined to children, required a few illustrations to feed the imagination of the young readers. Eli and Bilbo had rummaged through many portfolio, looking for the fitting artist who would give form and life to his words. All of the artwork had been beautiful but none had fully convinced him, something had always been missing and the most frustrating part had been that he had not been able to name it until he had seen it in Ori’s sketches. What he had been looking for was the unbridled ingenuous imagination of a child, because that was who Ori was deeply inside: somehow, under the guise of an adult and in spite of the responsibilities that implies, a part of him had remained a child. A glint of innocence shone in his kind brown eyes, that gentleness was reflected in his soft voice, his youthfulness was even more accentuated by his freckles and bowl haircut. A single shy smile exchanged between them and it had been settled, they were to be friend.

Bilbo was incredible thankful for having been given the occasion to meet his best friend, he had come into his life in a moment where the presence of a friend was the most needed. Bilbo had greatly underestimated the impact the death of his mother had had on his psychological balance, the loneliness had weighted a great deal on his frail shoulders, and Ori had eased his pain with a lot of strawberry flavoured ice cream, stupid rom-coms starring Sandra Bullock or Katherine Heigl and boxes of tissues. He had coaxed him numerous times into going out of his shell to accompany him in his adventurous outings in the bars of the capital. A smile always crept on his face each time he remembered these evenings, the infamous hangover in the mornings, once or twice the horrifying realisation that he was not alone in his bed. However, the reason Ori had for skimming the bars was much more romantic than the prospect of carnal pleasure: he was looking for his One, as he liked to call that mysterious man who would complete him on every aspect.

Bilbo would never dare voicing his opinion about his friend’s hopes, neither would he laugh at him, though he thought that looking for a soulmate was a vain quest, a chimera. He knew that it would be cruel of him to tell Ori that he was wild-goose chasing and that Prince Charming existed only in fairy tales, but sometimes he wondered if it was not even crueller to let unscrupulous men taking advantage of his friend until he found the right one. This Dwayne really had better be the right one, because Bilbo did not know if he would have the strength to mend his friend heart one more time without murdering the culprit.

When the doorbell rang at precisely four, Bilbo pulled on his face his best mask of overprotective best friend, and opened the green door of his house. Ori stood on the doorstep, a wide grin tugging at his lips and literally beaming with joy, next to him was an intimidating mountain of muscles and hair whose grey eyes glittered dimly under bushy greying brows. He wore a plain grey shirt with clean black trousers and a blazer too tight for his broad shoulders, he really looked like he was about to meet his future parents-in-law. He held in his huge paws a bouquet of yellow roses he extended to Bilbo, almost burying his nose in the soft petals.

“Dwayne McFundin, pleased to meet you”, he grunted, his voice slightly shaking. “Oliver told me a lot about you.”

Bilbo realised all of a sudden that this huge man with his beard and bald skull was nervous, and he could not help finding it endearing, if not cute. He offered him a reassuring smile before stepping aside and greeting Ori with a hug. As his guests came in, he could help but wonder nonetheless what Ori had told Dwayne exactly which would warrant such a nervous reaction.

*

“McFundin, I promise that when I catch you I’ll eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti,” Nori snarled in Dwayne’s earpiece.

Nori spared him Dr Lecter’s infamous hissing but there was little need for that; Dwalin was already dreading coming back to Thames House. He dared not thinking about how the Rinsky brothers would kill him and dispose of his body, but he only had to look down at the smiling man walking beside him to feel his inside melt like vanilla ice cream on a hot apple pie. The tiny fingers curled in his massive paw squeezed his and a fuzzy warmth spread in his broad chest.

“It’s here,” Ori said gently pointing a Victorian house of red bricks with a green door. “Bilbo isn’t that used to having guests, so try to be nice, alright?”

“I’m always nice,” he replied, sulking good-naturedly.

“To me you are, but I’m not so sure you are toward the others.”

Ori rang the bell and both waited for the door to open on the short M. Baggins.

“You’d better not screw this up, Dwalin.” Nori’s dry voice grated in his ear just as the door opened.

Dwalin introduced himself stiffly and all but shoved the flower bouquet he was holding in the man’s hands. He studied him carefully, making herculean efforts in order not to look like a staring creep but instead like the nice boyfriend of his best friend. Though this was mainly for job, Dwalin could not help himself to remember that he was not facing some random unsuspecting citizen who got into troubles he was standing before but somebody Ori cared for, and from what he had heard about him, Bilbo’s opinion of him would matter as much as Dominic and Norbert’s. He would have to be at his best and impress him.

“William Baggins, but you may call me Bilbo, pleased to meet you as well.” The sorter man said in response, a kind reassuring smile on his lips. “Ori can stop rambling about how wonderful you are. Let’s hope you deserve such praises.”

Dwalin felt a burning blush creeping along his neck hearing that his lover spoke so highly of him. Beside him Ori sputtered indignantly.

“Oh, Oliver, you’re here too. I hadn’t noticed you, hidden that you were by this colossus of a man,” Bilbo chuckled cheekily. “Enough joking now, tea-time doesn’t wait, please come in.”

Dwalin released a breath he did not even knew he was holding before following Ori and stepping inside the cosy little house. Somewhat, it was the image of its owner: an adorable sort of quaint, just as eccentric and welcoming as Bilbo who was wearing today a burgundy paisley shirt with a dark green velvet waistcoat and brown trousers, a mix which would have scorched his retina if anyone else had worn them for, strangely enough, it suited him perfectly. Bilbo’s interior was exactly the same: a strange amalgam of mismatched pieces of furniture, rugs which should have the decency of being eaten away by moths on a dusty attic instead of taunting him from the wooden floor. All sorts of kitsch knickknacks encumbered the shelves of the parlour Bilbo was leading them into, motioning them to take place in a doilies-covered armchair or on an hideous lime silk sofa. For a fleeting moment Dwalin genuinely wondered whether Bilbo was colour-blind or he just liked to buy out of pity everything antiquarian did not manage to sell, not very unlike people adopt stray dogs, maybe he had felt particularly sorry for these unfortunate curtains, though Dwalin though it would have been more charitable to burn them instead of hanging them. Unless Bilbo just had bad taste.

“I’ll be off just a few minutes to find a vase, then I’ll bring you tea and cake,” Bilbo said. “Thank you by the way, Dwayne, these flowers are gorgeous. Just make yourselves at home.”

Bilbo turned on an old record player which filled the air with a soft jazzy music, then he disappeared in the hallway, letting both Dwalin and Ori sitting alone.

“Okay enough niceties, McFundin. You have a job to do,” Nori grumbled in his earpiece.

Dwalin stood up from the armchair he was sitting in and casually roamed around the room, looking at the oddities in display.

“Bilbo sure likes colours, and…old things,” he uttered, hiding a tiny camera under a repulsive Delft ceramic elephant. “At least it doesn’t lack personality.”

“The house belonged to his parents before him, if someone is to be blamed for the choice of decoration, it’d be them, Bilbo has barely touched anything since their passing away.”

Dwalin froze midway through a step, suddenly feeling like an utter prick, making unfounded assumptions. He placed a mike under a lampshade and came back next to Ori on the sickeningly green sofa.

“I’m sorry, babe. I should have kept my mouth shut,” he whispered apologetically rubbing soothingly Ori’s back which earned him a furious snarl from Nori.

“I saw that!” he snarled ferociously. “Put your dirty hands off my brother.”

“Here, tea and lemon-flavoured sponge cake,” Bilbo chimed as he walked in with a tray in his hands. “I hope that you didn’t have to wait too long, I’m not that used to having guests anymore, so my manners might have deteriorated over the years.”

“Don’t worry, lad, I’m not the one who would begrudge you your lack of manners,” Dwalin rumbled as Bilbo poured him a steaming cup of tea whose perfume sweetened the air.

“Oh, and what would you begrudge me, Dwayne?”

Dwalin hunched a bushy brow.

“Calling me Dwayne,” he said seriously. “I hate that name, the only person who persists with calling me by my given name is my elder brother, even my parents renounced doing it, so please call me Dwalin.”

“He also seems to have something to say against your interior decoration,” Ori added, sipping innocently his hot tea.

“You little traitor, you’ll pay for this,” Dwalin growled.

“Oh, I’m counting on this,” the ginger head returned with a devious smirk.

“Dwalin, if you do anything to my baby-brother, I swear, I’ll castrate you!”

Bilbo chuckled lightly as he extended a plate of sponge cake to Ori. A gleeful glow glittered in his dark blue eyes as he turned them on Ori and him, thigh to thigh on an ugly sofa, bickering fondly, and in that instant, Dwalin knew that whatever had happened the previous day in that street, Andrew was right: William Baggins was innocent; innocent in general. He couldn’t see any hint of malice on that clean shaved face, his eyes, though hidden by ridiculous oversized glasses, were earnest. Actually, it was no surprise that Bilbo and Ori were friends, they were way too alike to be anything else. However, Dwalin could see something else beyond the smile of his host, he had spent too many years trying to decipher the facial expressions of terrorists or spies to be tricked: there was a lingering sadness in Bilbo’s eyes, a melancholy coming from longing.

“So, tell me about you, Dwalin. What are you doing for a living, I want to make sure that you can provide for Ori,” Bilbo asked, but his mischief sounded suddenly less genuine, a bit forced.

“Excuse me, I can provide for myself, Bilbo,” Ori huffed, mock offended, as he stabbed his slice of sponge cake with his fork.

“You’re an artist, sweetheart, of course you cannot,” Dwalin cut in. “Let Daddy talk.”

“For God’s sake…” Nori whined.

“In fact, Bilbo, I’m a police detective so I’m not sure if I can provide for him, or cover him with gifts and flowers. I know my job is rather dangerous and that I might someday be shot and I hate to think about what would happen to him if it were to happen, but I dare say that I love him deeply and earnestly, and that I’d make anything to ensure his safety and his happiness.”

Dwalin felt Ori shuffle next to him and heard him squeak a little “Dwalin” but he did not stop, he locked his gaze with Bilbo’s assessing one, addressing his words to him and to Ori’s overprotective and nosy brothers.

“I’ll take good care of him, until the day of my death if he allows it.”

Bilbo nodded while a new smile blossomed on his face lighting it with a joy only slightly dyed by sadness.

“I believe you,” he said calmly, and Dwalin marvelled at his easy acceptance. “I knew you two were a good match almost the instant I opened my door. Congrats, Ori, it seems you have finally found Mister Right.”

“I know,” Ori said with a bright grin that made Dwalin’s heart skip a beat, before pulling up their intertwined fingers and kissing Ori’s knuckles. “I’m lucky for having found him the first, they usually are all tied up with somebody once they have reached his age.”

The two men scrutinized him appreciatively which gave Dwalin the disturbing impression of being a piece of meat in the showcase of a butcher.

“How old is he, by the way?” Bilbo asked, faking obliviousness of his presence in the room, which, given Dwalin’s proportions, was mildly offending. “He looks really fit and muscular…”

“I’m thirty-eight,” he groaned to remind them of his being here. “And I thought it was very rude to ignore one’s guest?”  
Bilbo addressed him an apologetic and sheepish grin, and took a mouthful of his own tea.

“Well, now that the presentation are made, Bilbo, we may discuss the matter of finding you some hot bloke to warm your bed during the long winter nights.”

Bilbo almost choked on his tea.

“I beg your pardon? Ori, I like to think that I’m old enough to find somebody myself, I’m not a shy teenager needing his friends’ help anymore, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t doubt that you can perfectly find your own One -and stop rolling your eyes- but you’re a busy man with little time to devote for these “frivolities”, your own words, so I just want to make things easier for you.”

“Please, Ori…” Bilbo sighed tiredly, an obvious sign that the matter had been largely discussed before. 

“The last man you introduced me to was a selfish man-child who spent the whole dinner to speak about his seaside house at Brighton, his expensive car and his overpaid job, I had to flee while pretending to go to the restroom. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to survive another disastrous date.”

“Okay, I admit that Gregory was really a bad match for you, but you hardly let me any choice, I didn’t even know what to do or who to choose for you,” said Ori as he directed a cunning smile at Dwalin, who instantly dreaded the words his lover was about to formulate. “But this time we will broaden our horizon, I’m sure Dwalin must have a hot gay colleague he could introduce you to.”

A mighty blush crept from Bilbo’s collar to his hairline as he tried to hide his embarrassment by finishing his cup.

“Wouldn’t you find lovely to have a mighty cop at home? Somebody who could hold you in their strong arms as though you were weighting nothing? A warm body that would hold tightly against it at night?”

Dwalin swallowed the lump which was tightening his dry throat, trying to avoid the pleading looks that Bilbo was addressing him during Ori’s tirade. His eyes were imploring him to shut up, whomever he might think of. Suddenly the image of Thorin and Bilbo holding each other’s hands crossed his mind and a wry smile stretched his lips. The very idea might seem ridiculous at first and he almost dismissed it without a second thought, then he considered that the brooding attitude of his friend would perfectly balance Bilbo’s quiet friendliness. They would be a rather odd couple and it would surely not work very well at first, their temper were rather different after all, but Dwalin had little doubts that the alchemy would finally operate after a somewhat explosive beginning.

“I think you’re getting carried away, Ori,” Bilbo said, unimpressed by his friend’s passion, all too reminiscent of his own life with Ori for Dwalin taste. It was probably time to change the subject of the conversation.

“I might actually know somebody who would fit perfectly,” he finally said, his wry smile still tugging at the corner of his whisked mouth, even broadening as he kept thinking about it.

“Ah, you’re the best, my big bear!” Ori rejoiced, positively beaming up at Dwalin who could help but puff his chest with pride, while Nori made a gagging noise in his ear.

*

Thorin squirmed awkwardly in the shadow of that tree, he was being ridiculous and he knew it, but above all he was awfully obvious. He was surprised that no one had already called the police and even more that Dis had not noticed him. He had seen her coming home with the boys half an hour ago, she had changed a lot during the past years: just as him, she had earned a few grey hair in her ebony mane and some wrinkles now creased her brow, however she remained incredibly beautiful and the feeling of strength that irradiated from her face had not abandoned her in spite of the hardships of life. She was still a Durin after all, of course she had endured.

Yet, he had not anticipated the shock of seeing his nephews; Fili was fourteen now, the first signs of puberty had appeared in his slim shape while his features looked more and more like Vincent’s, except of his nose and eyes, he had received the sharp nose and the clear blue eyes of the Durins from Dis. How he had grown up in eight years! The last time Thorin had seen him, he had a passion for dinosaurs, chips with ketchup, like the average boy of his age, and climbed on his lap every time he could see his uncle. But the sight of Kili all but knocked air out of his lunges, he had barely anything in common with the tiny boy he had lifted in his arms for the last time. His long brown hair had darkened and his face had lost its childish roundness and lengthened to look uncannily like Frerin when he was about the same age. He felt an aching urge to cross the street and to knock at the door of his sister’s home only to see the boys he had cradled in his arms under the watchful eyes of their parents.

His legs seemed to move on their own and drove him towards Dis’ home and before he could gather his wits, he was standing before the dark wooden panel. He was not so sure if coming had been such a good idea, he knew his sister: she would be furious to see him after believing him dead. She would beat him, yell at him and worst of all, she would hate him. He could stomach a lot of things, he was not that much of coward to dread an argument with his little sister, however he thought that he would not survive the sight of hatred in the cold eyes of Desiree. He considered turning on his heel and fleeing with his tail between his legs, looking as ashamed as he felt. He was alone though, so alone that he was willing to take the risk of being rejected and face his younger sister’s wrath. He even entertained the foolish hope that if he explained everything to her, she might understand and forgive him, even welcome him. The only thing he needed was a leap of faith.

“Come on, be a man, Thorin,” he scolded himself as he extended a shaking finger toward the bell. As the sensitive tip met the cold metal, he gingerly pressed the button as though it was about to blow up at his face. The shrill tinkle sounded like the toll and an eternity seemed to elapse before the pounding of footsteps resounded behind the door, echoing Thorin’s own deafening heartbeats, before it opened on the frowning face of Kili.

“Hello, Sir. Can I help you?” he asked politely, though a bit mistrustfully.

Thorin gazed down and met the brown eyes of his nephew and remained desperately quiet, his breath caught in his throat, stunned by the sight he behold. The resemblance between the kid and his own brother was even more striking now that he was standing this close, though Kili had inherited of the hazel eyes of Vincent.

“Kili, who is it?” called the nearing voice of Dis, but not close enough to shake Thorin out of his muteness.

“I don’t know, Mom,” he said as he opened even more the door and stepped aside. “He hasn’t spoken yet.”

Thorin looked up across the hall right into his sister’s petrified clear eyes. The two of them remained totally still for several seconds, a stunned silence stretching between them before any of them dared –or found the words- to speak. Thomas moistened his dry lips, trying to ignore the anxious weight in the pit of his stomach or the constricting grip around his heart.

“Thomas?” she finally asked hesistantly, her voice sounding so tiny and broken, as she stumbled toward him.

“Hi, Dis,” he managed to say, a shy smile on his lips. “It’s been a long time.”

The words had barely crossed his chapped lips that she crossed the distance between them and slapped him with all her strength, her anguished eyes shining with unshed tears.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from her face, not wanting to read hatred on his baby-sister’s eyes.

“You’re supposed to be dead! How dare you show your face here?!” she yelled.

Another slap hit him on the cheek, he felt its burn on his skin, though it could not overshadow the agonizing searing of shame that swayed him when he heard the distress in his sisters’ tone.

“We mourned you!” she hissed with a hurt ferociousness in her voice, which threatened to break into a sob on each word pronounced. “It nearly killed Mom and Dad before a breast cancer and a heart attack did the job. Frerin was inconsolable. You broke our hearts, Thorin!”

She slapped him once more, though the blow was weaker this time, as though her force was leaving her, flowing out of her along her tears, but Thorin didn’t even think of defending himself, he let his sister let go of her anger and sorrow. Besides, he deserved it, he knew he had made them shed more than a tear, a few slaps was a small retribution in comparison to the hurt he had caused.

“Where the hell were you all this time?” she asked, her voice breaking as she collapsed and fell on her knees.

“Mom?” the worried voice of Fili called from behind his mother.

Thorin swiftly followed and knelt in front his sister, before gingerly taking her in his arms. He put a comforting hand on her back and began to rub soothing circles on her shoulder blades while she tried to muffle her broken sobs in her brother’s shirt. He let her dig her fingers in his back and cling to him as though he was about to turn into smoke and vanish into thin air.

“Shh, stop crying Dis. I’m home. I’m here to stay now, I won’t leave again. I’ll explain everything, I promise,” he whispered against her ear as his kissed softly the top of her head, his own voice trembling. “I’m sorry for having been away this long. I won’t leave again.”

“You…you’d better have a very good excuse,” Dis stammered against his shoulder, finally returning a proper embrace.

“Don’t worry, I have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have appreciated this chapter, do not hesitate to let a kudo and/or a comment, it helps me getting better and encourage me to keep writing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge "thank you" to [DragonsinGondolin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin) for beta-reading this chapter and his precious insight.
> 
> The "soundtrack" for this fic has been edited, the link is just [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_6Q4KKfBeBBq8y5rxAfDEKpFGVxVSIbE)
> 
> You can still join me on my [tumblr](http://yachaer.tumblr.com)

Thorin was sitting on the bed of the guestroom Dis had offered him to stay in overnight, absent-mindedly observing the knuckles of his hands. He could tell that Dis was still mad at him, she had not slapped him throughout their conversation and his revelations about his true job, though that was no proof at all: Desiree had always been the most phlegmatic of the Durin siblings, whereas he had been graced with the thunderous temper of the Durin men. Her impassive façade could hide the most dreadful anger just like oceans constantly conceal volcanic eruptions under the thick mantel of blue waters. In fact, her shouts and the tears she had shed earlier were exceptional and truly concerning.

He would have well deserved a few other slaps; he had lied to his family, had concealed the true nature of his profession –so he was not a police detective but actually a MI-5 agent- and had managed to be captured and imprisoned in Russia for eight years, and then he had waltzed in, expecting everyone to forgive him and welcome him. However, notwithstanding his misdeed, she had remained deadly still in the armchair he had sat her in before beginning his whole explanation, never interrupting him. Thorin had seen pain and confusion veiling her eyes when she dared to cross her red eyes with his, an ounce of resentment was there too but not as much as he would have expected.

Dis had listened to him, or at least Thorin assumed so as she had not chased him out of her house. Once he had finished, everyone remained silent, Thorin, Dis, the boys hovering near the entrance of the living-room, then she stood up and slowly marched toward her elder brother and kneeling before him. Her thin hands were cold when she cupped his face, levelling his ashamed eyes with hers.

“Will you stay the night, Thorin?” she had said, her voice tight in her throat.

He had gasped before nodding, then she had slowly strode to the kitchen to cook diner. Thorin knew she had restrained herself, and he admired even more his sister who had managed to always remain strong, in spite of the heartbreak of losing their parents, her husband, Frerin, she had endured, for her boys’ sake.

Thorin knew that Fili had recognized him the instant he had seen him holding his sobbing mother in his arms, he was not that little when he had seen Thorin for the last time, and if not, he must have found pictures of him here and there. Yet, he had remained quiet and had merely wrapped his arms around his younger brother, holding him in the same fashion as Thorin had been holding his younger sister. The boys had silently followed the two of them, when Thorin had led Dis to the living room where he had sat her in an armchair before having himself a seat, and they had listened to his story, their startled eyes locked on his big hands cradling Desiree’s thin arms. Thorin had even forgotten their presence on the threshold of the room: they had kept their distance as though they were afraid to be hurt if they had the recklessness of coming closer. He had nonetheless noticed Philipp’s defiant behaviour, his eyes asking him the question he had been expecting and dreading the most, and that Dis seemed unable or unwilling to voice.

“Why, Thomas? Why did you lie to them all that time? Why couldn’t you just tell them the truth? What could possibly have happened?”

“I…If I had told them, they would all have been involved, and I wanted to prevent that. I didn’t want any of them to be used against me. The lesser they knew about what I was doing, the lesser reasons there was for anyone to harm them. Besides…Would they -Frerin, your mother, Mom or Dad- have approved?” Thorin had wanted to answer to those accusing eyes.

Instead, Thomas had addressed a shy smile to his nephews before treading the same path as his sister had followed. He had softly knocked on the frame of the door, Dis was standing in front of the sink, rinsing tomatoes, her back turned to him. He had heard her sniff discretely.

“You didn’t tell us everything, did you?” she had asked, almost whispered, all while trying to focus her whole attention on the task at hand.

“No, I didn’t. The boys were there, and I couldn’t…” he had trailed off.

“I’m glad you didn’t tell us about your true job, you know,” she laughed uneasily. “We would have spent half our time worrying about you!”

“And I about you. I wouldn’t have been able to do my job properly, knowing that it could indirectly harm you. Though that did little difference after all whether I was a good agent or not.”

Dis’ finger had frozen around the tomato she was holding. For a moment the only sound in the kitchen came from the water flowing out of the faucet.

“What do you mean?” she had asked, puzzled, as she looked at her brother over her shoulder. But Thorin remained sheepishly silent, cursing himself for having blurted that. “They… they let you rot over there? Without even trying to save you?” Dis gasped, which caused a slightly cynical smirk to stretch on Thorin’s face.

“It’s how it works. If you get caught during a mission abroad, you’re on your own.”

“But, how come you’re free, then?” Fili had shyly asked, still holding close his little brother.

Thorin had pondered if he should give a half-truth and let Dis figure out on her own the missing parts of the picture. He had felt the weight of his sister’s gaze on the back of his skull, both demanding the truth and a sugar-coated version.

“They traded me,” Thorin finally said, watching horror widening his nephews’ eyes.

 

An awkward silent diner of Bolognese spaghetti and a searing hot shower later, Thorin found himself lounging on the soft blanket of his bed, wearing some of Vincent’s old pairs of sweatpants and a tank top. He was writing a text to tell Dwalin where to find him the following morning, when he heard a light knock on the door. Thorin checked the time on the upper side of the screen: it was almost eleven, it could only be Dis. Before, he could even invite his visitor to come in, the door cracked open and Kilian and Philipp came in the soft light of the bedside lamp. They almost looked surprised to find him awake.

“Uncle Thomas?” whispered shyly Kili. “You’re still up?”

Thorin silently motioned them to come in, the door only clicking when Fili closed it after them.

“What are the two of you doing here? You should be sleeping,” he said on a hushed tone.

Kili hopped from a bare foot to the other, hanging his shaggy head, looking downcast at the soft scolding.

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, we don’t go to school,” Fili explained.

Thorin sighed before patting the bed next to him, it shouldn’t be legal to be that cute and to use this cuteness to soften the adults. Even if the law was indeed promulgated, it would be of little use for Thorin: he had never been able to resist his nephews, every time they had begged him to tell them a bedtime story or to buy them ice-creams, he had always indulged. And in spite of all these years away from them, he still found himself defenceless before these pleading sad puppy eyes. Instantly beaming, the ever easy-going Kili climbed eagerly on the mattress, next to Thorin while Fili, more moderately, sat at the foot of the bed, eying warily his uncle.

“You won’t make me believe that both of you couldn’t sleep, so what do you want us to talk about.”

“Well, you, we hardly know anything about you,” Fili said. “We were little when you disappeared, Kili could barely remember your face.”

“Did your mother tell you nothing about me?” Thorin asked, trying to ignore the sharp stinging of disappointment that his own sister hadn’t bothered to speak of him to her sons. His hurt feelings must have transpired in his tone, for the brothers shared a brief glance.

“Mom, didn’t really like speaking about you, but I don’t think that was because she didn’t like you,” Fili explained carefully. “Every time that somebody tried to, she would suddenly look sad.”

“It always made Uncle Frerin _so_ mad at her,” Kili nodded emphatically.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Fili exclaimed, before his uncle motioned him to keep his tone low “Uncle Frerin was the only one who would tell us about you, or show us old pictures of you.”

“Do you know that, Uncle Frerin is…” Kili trailed off.

“Yes,” Thorin answered forlornly, knowing perfectly what his nephew was struggling to say. “Yes, I know about the accident, although I haven’t paid him a visit yet… I…”

Thorin did not know if he could admit to his nephews that he was too scared to go to the hospital and visit his own brother. Quite selfishly, he wondered what they would think of him, would they think less of him, or worse, that he was a coward, but he doubted that they would understand.

“I don’t really like going to the hospital to see Uncle Frerin,” Kili whispered, as though for himself. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Thorin suddenly looked up to stare at his younger nephew with no little amount of wonder.

“Neither does Mom,” Fili sighed.

Thorin suddenly felt a rush of fondness for his young nephews, it really seemed that Fili and Kili had instinctively understood his distress and tried to comfort him. Such empathy was remarkable at their young age, and a tad woeful; they were way too young to understand the sorrows and the concerns of an adult. When he was their age, Thorin only concerns were keeping his siblings away from his bedroom, kicking a ball with Dwalin in the school’s football team and dating a girl. Life is supposed to be pretty simple when you’re fourteen. Thorin only wished he had been there for them and Dis when grief had struck them, robbing them of a husband and father, two uncles… Actually he should have been alongside them from the very beginning and never have left them.

“You know, they say that people in coma can still hear what people say, that it helps them waking up,” Fili said as he crept next to Thorin, opposite to his younger brother. “Maybe you should go, it may do him some good.”

“No doubt it would,” Thorin chuckled. “He’d wake up only to punch me in the jaw.”

“Uncle Frerin would never do something like that,” Kili moaned indignantly. “He’s the nicest.”

Thorin’s eyebrows twitched at that statement; maybe that he was really becoming a geezer, but as far as he could recall Frerin had never been the idealized hero he could almost picture in the sparkling eyes of his younger nephew. Frerin had actually been closer to a little demon of mischief when he was a child, and then a selfish teenager. He had the stunning ability of attracting trouble like a black hole: his flippancy and recklessness had even earned him a lot of split lips, bleeding noses and bruised jaws when he was in his early twenties. Now that he was thinking about it, Thorin could not –and did not want- remember the number of times he had had to come to his rescue, punch a cheated boyfriend -often two from the point when he had discovered he was disgustingly handsome and charming- or just pick him after a drunken night out because he was so pissed that he could barely put a foot in front of the other. But the boys surely were scarred enough, no need to tarnish the image they had of Frerin.

“And Uncle Frerin is the coolest. He has a _tattoo_ and a _bike_!”

Thorin could not help chuckling at Kili’s candid definition of what is cool.

“Well, I think that the bike is actually mine, he had always loved it, I’m not actually surprised he… borrowed it from me,” Thorin smirked. “The tattoo, though, is a surprise, I’d thought him too soft to bear the sting of a needle. It was a real pain to have him inoculated when he was a kid.”

And that was it, Thorin was launched on the telling of his younger brother’s antics, omitting no embarrassing detail of his childhood adventures, he took care of not sparring Dis by mentioning her own role in more than one evil prank designed by Frerin’s wicked mind. Both Fili and Kili tried to muffle their giggles lest waking their mother as Thorin described to them their grand-father’s biblical wrath when his siblings had found funny to put nettle in the collar of their younger cousin Daniel –nicknamed Dain. He told them of the laxative they had poured in their grandmother’s teapot when she had invited them to the most boring birthday party ever. The boys could barely breathe when he imitated the angry barks of grandpa Thror between two pained moans.

Tucked between his nephews, Thorin felt like he had never left. It was so easy, the reluctance he had felt in Fili’s behaviour had vanished and Kili was curled against him, as though he had known him his whole life. When the boys finally fell asleep, Fili’s head resting on his shoulder and Kili’s peaceful and even breathe tickling the skin of the arm he had wrapped around him, Thorin alternatively looked down at them, bestowing upon them the tenderest gaze. Thorin loved his nephew, he had loved them the instant he had seen them in the hospital. True, they had not been very beautiful with their red skin and bald heads, wrinkled like an overripe apple, but the fragility that their thin limbs and tightly shut eyes conveyed had at the same time made his heart melt with tenderness and lit in it a fierce protectiveness. During the darkest hours of his captivity, when he had let himself be swallowed by despair, Thorin had more than once clung to the memory of Fili being wrapped in a blue blanket, sleeping deeply in the arms of an exhausted but happy Dis. He remembered with a chuckle that Vincent had looked just as worn out as if he had given birth to his first born himself. In these moments, he could still feel the warm weight of Fili in his arms and the weak grip of Kili’s hand on his fingers.

Thorin raised a hand before holding it hesitantly, his long fingers trembling, then he slowly stroked Fili’s golden locks, almost dreading to break him as much as to wake him. He pulled Kili a little more tightly against his side and for the very first time for years, he found that he had no trouble drifting into a soothingly dreamless sleep.

*

Bilbo had lost track of time, he had been writing for hours, that he was sure of, but how many, he had absolutely no idea. After Ori and Dwalin had departed, though not without having declined politely but firmly his insisting offer to stay for dinner, he had once more cooked for him alone. He had decided for steamed salmon with a drizzle of lemon juice to give a hint of acidity to the pinkish flesh, accompanied by broccoli and rice. He had eaten alone at his kitchen table in a monastic silence, his mind focused on the acquaintance he had made the same afternoon. He genuinely liked Dwalin, he was obviously made for Ori, and reciprocally. Dwalin was exactly what his friend had spent years looking for: a gentle supportive man who could make him feel safe, cherished and respected. If Ori’s brothers were to be a hindrance to their relationship, he was ready to cross swords with them to ensure Ori and Dwalin’s happiness.

Actually, Bilbo had felt a bit envious of what they shared: the easy complicity between them, the quick smiles and non-oral communication. He wished he had had the same thing with someone else, but he had not. After dinner, he had gone upstairs to his study, hopping that a few hours of writing would do the trick to dislodge the heaviness settled in his chest. His desk and his writing machine were waiting for him, facing the window against which the first drops of a downpour clattered. He had lit the lamp set next to the keyboard of the machine and resumed the task he had neglected during the afternoon. He had let the words wash over him and fill his mind, blinding him and numbing his own emotions to replace them with his characters’. And now that he had to emerge out of the comforting haze that writing had provided him, he did it reluctantly, like one leaves the cosy warmth of one’s bed a rainy morning, knowing that it would be a very bad day. He blinked away the soreness of his eyes before putting an end to a paragraph. He would proof read it in the morrow.

Then, as he was sitting still and savouring the weariness his work had brought him, it dawned to him. Now that the clicking of the writing machine had quieted, the house was totally silent. Bilbo could not even hear the distant buzzing of the fridge or the reassuring ticking of a clock; he could hear nothing apart from the liquid rattle of rain against glass. The house, his haven, now felt empty and forlorn, like an empty shell wrecked on the shore. Bilbo truly was all alone. His watch read past midnight and he was still sitting in his study, because nobody had told him that he was time to go to bed. Only one plate was waiting in the sink to be washed because he never shared his meal with anyone. One toothbrush in his bathroom, one dressing gown on the armchair in his bedroom and one pair of slippers next to the door when he left home.

A wave of dread threatened to overwhelm him as he noticed the numbing cold that had settled in his core and the desperate craving in his heart. Seeing Ori and Dwalin together, holding hands and whispering sweet nothing to each other had awakened a longing in him: he wished he could meet a man, someone as sweet and caring as Dwalin, a funny man -or at least able to make him smile again; somebody willing to blow on the embers of his past self and rekindle them. If that somebody –that One- existed, he had to come promptly, for Bilbo could feel in his bones that he was already beginning to wither. He already was reluctant to go out and meet new people, make new friends, and bind himself to them. He preferred the formerly soothing calm of his home, the regularity of his day to day schedule, the company of his books, blankets and muffled memories. If thing were to go on like this, he would soon be as empty and cold as his house, and he could not stand it: he did not want his haven to become his gaol. Oh god, how sick he was of being lonely.

*

Morning crept on London as the sun shyly poked its scarlet disc over the horizon, covering the town’s old red brick houses with a veil of golden dew and rosy clouds. The grey and dark blue hues of the night faded on the shinning glass towers of the City while London slowly awoke and emerged out of its misty blankets.

Sunrays slipped through the window of his room to stroke Thorin’s brow and softly pull him out of sleep. He blinked before the dim light of the rising sun, on each of his sides, his nephews were pining his arms to the mattress. Thorin would have loved to stay still until they woke up, their weight a reassurance that he was back home, but he knew he had to meet Dwalin early this morning. With no little amount of caution, he managed to release his arms and get off his bed without causing much than a few sleepy groans and stirs. Thorin covered Fili and Kili with a blanket and tip-toed his way out of the room.

Dis was, of course, already up. She was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped up in a woolly cardigan, her raven-black hair tied in a loose ponytail and her hands cradling a steaming cup. The flagrance of toasted bread and plum jam was filling the air, mixing with the stronger smell of coffee.

“Hello,” Thorin uttered softly before planting a light kiss on top of his sister’s head.

“Hello, Thorin. Are the boys still sleeping?” she answered as she stood to fill a mug of coffee for her brother.

“Yes, deeply. I think a whole bison herd wouldn’t be able to rouse them.”

Dis had to smother a snort to keep her mouthful of coffee in her mouth.

“You’ve obviously forgotten how you were when you were their age: Mom couldn’t get you out of bed before eleven.”

“Ah, yes, the good old time,” he replied dryly, relishing the renewed complicity between his sister and him. They remained silent for a while, eating and locking gaze every now and then.

“You have to go back there, right?” Dis suddenly asked.

Though she had not explicitly said what she had meant, Thorin understood.

“Indeed, I have to report to my superiors, they want to know if I’m still trustworthy.”

“Do they have any reason to think that you cannot be relied on anymore?”

“It’s just a routine interrogation. There’s little to be worried of.”

“Do you need me to drive you there?”

“No, Dwalin will do it.”

Thorin’s froze, his fingers clutching the piece of toast he was chewing a minute ago. Maybe he was not that trustworthy anymore if he was beginning to reveal the true activity of other agents to his sister, but Dis merely acknowledged the revelation that a lifelong family friend was a spy too with a distracted hum. Unless the most worrying part was that she was already blasé about secret identities, reappearing brothers and so on.

“I think I’ll go see Frerin tonight,” he blurted to change the subject, though some part of him curious about the reaction it would induce, but she nodded, albeit sadly.

“It’s a good idea, his doctor says that he might hear the surrounding sounds. Who knows, he might rise from his bed and try to strangle you,” she dead-panned. “Just joking,” she added to smoothen the crumpled brow of her brother. “Be in time for dinner, though, I’ll do Grandma’s shepherd pie. And invite Dwalin, please, I think the two of us have some things to tell each other.”

 

“Why do you have a bruise on the cheek?” Thorin asked as he climbed in Dwalin’s car, his brows furrowed in confusion, which earned him a brooding stare while he was buckling his belt.

“Nori didn’t take very well the news of my being his brother’s boyfriend,” the burly man groaned unhappily, scowling at a pedestrian crossing the street before them. “But wait to see in what a state he is,” he added with a smug smile. “Nobody gets between Ori and me.”

“I hope he’s worth the trouble,” Thorin said noncommittally.

“Yes, he definitely is. As we’re talking of bruise, I’m surprised you don’t have any of your own. Dis really forgave you?”

“She did slap me a few times, though I wouldn’t say that I’m forgiven,” Thorin sighed heavily. “Or at least, not entirely. I think she understands, though, or is willing to try. She even invited me to stay at her place as long as I wanted. Ah, and I’m required to tell you that you’re invited to dinner, tonight, at seven.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, she had of guessed that you’re a spy too and that you’ve been lying to her about my death for the past eight years. She’s slightly cross with you, right now.”

Dwalin blanched, and Thorin was torn between sympathy and amusement at the resigned look on his friend face. He gently patted him on the shoulder.

“If I were you, I’d double-check your share of shepherd pie for rat poison. I probably should do the same, now that I’m thinking about it.”

Thorin heard Dwalin huff and barely noticed that one of his hands had left the steering wheel before it slapped lightly the back of his skull.

“You moron! Dis is just happy to have you back in her life, she certainly won’t hurt you, she’s well aware that the past years have been really hard on you. I’m pretty sure her motherly instinct his currently yelling at her for letting you out of her sight.”

Thorin’s broad shoulder slumped, feeling the weight of the years being brought back on them; he wasn’t even able to understand his own sister as well as he used to, his best friend had to explain her every reaction. He peered through the window of the passenger door to hide his downcast expression, before whispering the words he hated the most, already feeling their acrid taste on his tongue:

“You’re right, I’m being a dork.”

Dwalin, true to himself, answered with an approving grunt.

“I hope you’re more talkative with your boyfriend,” Thorin sassed as they stopped when the light turned red.

“No need to talk when I’m with him…”

Thorin turned an arched brow at his friend; such a lewd innuendo was highly unlike the very guarded Dwayne McFundin he knew. The crimson hue spreading on the skin of his cheeks and bald skull betrayed though the involuntary nature of his statement.

“I-I mean that Ori just does most of the speaking stuff,” Dwalin stammered, trying to avoid the knowing smile Thorin was casting him. “Oh, shut up. I should find you somebody, just to see the dumb expression on your face when you’ll put your feet in your mouth and try to compliment them. Ori is friend with that charming guy, exactly your type, by the way. Cute and small.”

Thorin froze on the instant when he noticed –or rather felt- the underlying seriousness in Dwalin’s casual tone. He was sure that he was right now the spitting image of the proverbial startled deer caught in the headlights of a tractor-trailer. A rush of panic surged in his brain, almost shutting it down. It was too soon, he was barely back, still too unstable, if he even managed to regain some sort of stability someday. He was simply not ready to be emotionally involved with somebody yet. It would be horribly selfish by the way, he did not want to burden anybody else with his insecurities and issues. Dwalin must have figured out that he had triggered a true storm in Thorin’s mind. Doubtlessly the round eyes tethered on him were enough of a proof.

“Easy, Thorin, I won’t push you in the arms of a man I barely know, or at least not until I deem you ready for the shock. And I assure you that Bill is quite something. Honestly, you should see him with his bowties and his tea set...”

Dwalin chuckled and shook his head at some amusing memory, and Thorin laughed along, if not a bit uneasily, under the circumspect sidelong glance of his friend. When Dwalin parked his car, Thorin still had not managed to dispel the turmoil that his conversation had stirred in his innermost, he had to resign himself to face Grey in this state of mind. Andrew would literally smell this kind of feeling, and if his nostrils unluckily caught the faint flagrance of uneasiness, there would be no way on earth to stop his meddling, and Thorin definitely did _not_ need the old man to stick his nose in his personal life. It already was messy enough.

As he passed security, treaded through familiar corridors and reached the office where he had spent numerous busy nights, often in pleasant company, even if work required to be done, fond memories he had often summoned back in his cell superposed themselves to the reality standing before him. Nori’s crass jokes, Glynn rambling about his baby boy or Dori bringing him a steaming mug of tea, every one of these glittering piece of his past were now stained by bitterness. Thorin felt his mood darkening even more as Balin came to meet his brother and him, a hand extended and a polite but professional smile on his lips.

“Good morning, Thomas. You look much better today,” his old friend uttered.

Thomas? Well, Barnaby could hardly be clearer on the way he was now perceived; today there would be no place for past friendship, only business was left, and of course small talk and niceties was part of it: putting him at ease to loosen his tongue. He knew it was the procedure and that no spy in their right mind would trust a colleague who had been captured, the odds of him being a mole were too high, but he knew the little tricks by heart and how to earn the trust of a suspect. Fathoming that Balin thought that his sweet talk would lulled his vigilance galled him.

“Yeah, four hours of sleep, a greasy fish and chips, a haircut and, whoosh, a brand new man,” Thorin snapped tartly.

Balin looked taken aback. He very likely expected him to be all docile and subject himself to all the questions he would be asked without biting back. His hostile behaviour would certainly look suspect, but he did not care, his pride was raw enough to make him lose the little common sense and restraint he still had.

“Thorin, there is no need of-”

“Acting like I didn’t know the rules of the game,” he growled rudely. “I’ll tell you what you want to know and then I just ask you to let me forget the past eight years.”

An uneasy silence fell, until Balin was foolish enough to try to communicate.

“Well, I know that you’re furious, and that’s really not the moment to bother you with all that bureaucratic crap, but we really need…”

Balin’s voice progressively faltered under Thorin’s merciless glare.

“Well…Andrew must be waiting for us, let’s go,” he finally said after clearing his voice.

They parted ways with Dwalin who patted encouragingly Thorin’s shoulder and offered him to meet him afterward, then he left to join his office. Balin led Thorin through hallways to a small meeting room furnished with a minimalistic glass table surrounded by comfortable leather office chairs. Grey was already occupying one of them, his legs crossed, wearing a sharp grey tartan suit with an eggshell blue silk tie and rummaging through the pages of some random report. He raised his wrinkled grey eyes toward Balin and Thorin the very instant they crossed the threshold of the glass door. Thorin gave the room a sweeping view; at least it felt less cold and oppressive than the regular interrogation rooms, no way-mirror to hide a judgmental former colleague, no sanitized white walls to crush him.

“Good morning, Thorin, thank you for accepting to attend this…meeting,” Andy greeted him tiredly. “Let’s do it as quickly as possible, so we can all be rid of this unpleasant chore. Please, have a seat.”

Thorin noticed that Gandalf did not shook his hand, or stood to greet him, he suddenly wondered how many times that old man had done that, interrogating agents whose faithfulness was questioned. Thorin suspected that the years had not been kind to Gandalf and had not only brought him more wrinkles but many worries as well, if the deep creases on his forehead were to be believed.

Thorin sat slowly, facing Sir Andrew and Balin from across the table.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, Thomas. I want to know everything about your detention, what you told them, their interrogation methods, who interrogated you and where you were kept captive. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Thorin replied coldly between his clenched teeth.

“We’re aware that it’s far from being easy for you to relive that trying part of your life, but if you let anything slip, the safety of the country may be compromised,” Balin backed up.

Thorin breathed raggedly, focusing his attention on the pitcher of water set next to Balin’s joined hands. He braced himself, like he did so many times before when, tied to a chair, he saw the sparkles springing out of the electrodes that were about to burn his skin and muscles.

“I have no precise idea of where I was kept captive, I couldn’t even assess the distance from Moscow from the trip duration as I had been drugged during my first trip and asleep most of the second. My cell had no windows, so there was no way of locating the prison by using the stars, but considering the humidity of the premises, I’d say that it was mostly underground. As for the interrogations, they were at first led by Pavel Ivanovich Azogov, but then he received a promotion and left my care to somebody else.”

“Unfortunately, we already know that. Azogov has been appointed at the Russian Embassy,” Gandalf uttered evenly. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He had kind of a soft spot for me,” Thorin chuckled dryly. “And by that I mean that he was even more brutal with me than with the other prisoners. He told me himself, I was a challenge for him as I categorically refused to give any kind of answer to his questions. To prevent myself from telling something important, I used to blurt personal facts and that bastard reciprocated, he boasted about his life, just to remind me that I had none.”

At that, Thorin saw that he had caught their interest.

“He often rambled about the glorious past of his family during the tsars’ era, of his kid -a little bully just as despicable as his father- of the wife he had no scruples about cheating. He’s a sadist, he’s unafraid of drawing blood and he even enjoys it, but he was ever careful of never maiming me. I can tell you he’s manipulative and conceited. Never trust his words, he can be very convincing when he’s lying.”

“Does he showed any kind of weakness?”

“He has the weakness of every overconfident man: his pride. Know he likes flattery and he has a tendency to hold grudge, especially against those who outwitted him. He lets easily anger blind him, and is too self-assured for his own good. He’s possessive and greedy too, I’d wager he’s furious I managed to slip between his fingers.”

Gandalf finished to take notes then met Thorin’s icy gaze.

“Alright, now I’d like to broach the subject of the content of the interrogations.”

Thorin closed his eyes for a fleeting instant, steeling himself against the sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt his heart beat faster against his ribcage as blood left his head and his stomach dropped of a few centimetres. Battling to even his erratic breath and the growing nausea, Thorin balled his hands into fists, digging his nails in the tender skin of his palms. He could almost hear his own screams and feel the searing burn of electricity creeping through his skin to his chest, the exhaustion of days spent without sleep, alone, naked in a cold cell. He heard his own name through the buzzing filling his ears, then felt the contact of a warm hand on his fist. Thorin snapped out of this reminiscence, dumbfounded, meeting the concerned looks of both Gandalf and Balin. He promptly withdrew his hand from Gandalf reassuring grip, and hid his puzzled emotions behind a stone wall of coldness. He swallowed back the rising bile and the lump in his throat.

“They tortured me,” he uttered blankly barely moving his pursed lips or his clenched jaws, his voice sounded alien and gravelly. “Sleep deprivation, beating, waterboarding, humiliations. They tried to extract the names of my contacts in FSB, sometimes they asked me about things I hadn’t ever heard of, sometimes I recognized names and kept my mouth shut even more stubbornly. I told them _nothing_ except things regarding my personal life.”

Andrew and Barnaby shared a brief look before nodding slightly.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Gandalf stated as he shut his notebook. “Now, I’d like to discuss the future of your career.”

Thorin nodded mutely, his heart beating a little faster.

“I’d understand that you wouldn’t want to work for MI-5 any longer, Thorin, really I would. Know nonetheless that if it’s not the case you’ll be more than welcome back.”

“In any case, you won’t be left on your own without any resource, we’ll ensure that you find a home, a work and we’ll provide for any health care until you find back your balance and autonomy. And of course you’ll receive a generous compensation for the years you’ve lost for England’s sake,” Balin assured him.

Thorin nodded. Of course, money. Finding a home and a job had been some of his many concerns since his return, but somehow, he suspected he was offered all of this on a silver plate only to sweep him under the rug. He knew that MI-5 could afford to pay him a rent, a financial aid or a monthly appointment with a therapist, they dedicated a part of their budget to help agents heavily wounded during a mission and the likes, it was nothing but a trifle for them to provide him a brand new life.

“When could I return to duty?” he surprised himself by asking.

He had done it on a sudden impulse. Any sensible person, himself included, would have assumed that he had had quite enough and was done with spying, on the other hand, Thorin had done nothing of his life apart from working for the British secret service, it was the only thing he was good at, and he had enjoyed his job before his capture. It had given him the feeling of accomplishing something important and useful, of protecting his home and his family. Maybe he hoped that embers of the flames that once animated him were still burning under the stone-cold ashes of his past life.

However, it seemed that he was not the only one astonished by his brash resolve, for Balin looked totally dazed, while Gandalf was sporting a smug smirk.

“If you feel yourself ready, you could begin right now. Balin will do the paperwork and you’ll have an office, an access card along with your new ID by the end of the day. You won’t be asked anything too tiring for now, your priority is to reconnect with reality and get some rest. Though, I’m sure you’ll understand that you won’t be allowed to use a gun until you’ll be properly psychologically evaluated. Nobody wants to deal with an unfortunate accident.”

So it was settled, Thomas would retake his place among the agents under Andy’s orders, just as simply as that. Now that he was thinking about it, it might not be the best idea he had ever had, it would certainly need a bit of time to work out his issues. He was pretty sure that he suffered from PTSD and that he _would_ need a few months –if not years- of therapy to get rid of the nightmares that plagued his nights. He was still resentful toward Gandalf for having let him rot in Russia for eight years. But in time, he was sure to be okay, or at least, he was willing to believe he could.

“All right, do I need to sign anything?” he asked hesitantly.

“Not for the time being, but later you’ll have to sign a few things. The main problem we’ll have to solve is that you were declared dead after your capture…” Balin trailed off.

“So it will be a lot of paper to fill to get my life back.”

“Roughly, yes.”

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll take care of that. Now, come with me, we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll fill you in on the case we’re currently working on.”

Gandalf gathered his notes in a folder he tucked under one arm, before leading Thorin out of the meeting room.

“So, what are we currently working on?” Thorin asked as they strode in the hallway.

“That, Thorin, will definitely require a lot of tea and pastries.”

Gandalf barely had time to finish his sentence before Gloin appeared at the end of the hallway, panting and flushed.

“Andrew, things have begun to move,” he announced.

*

Bilbo woke up later than usual, which was never a good omen. He had never been a lazing sleepyhead, it was no part of his own personal philosophy: the early bird catches the worm, like his mother used to say. But this morning, he found no strength to apply his creed and move his boneless body out of the warmth of his bed, he only managed to emit an inarticulate groan when his alarm clock greeted him with a shrill beeping. Giving the hellish machine the finger, his head still muffled in the cover, he sluggishly emerged out of the restless sleep he had drifted into after hours of staring at the ceiling. As an obvious result, he felt exhausted, miserable and downcast, a bit like Bill Murray in _Groundhog Day_ after his hundredth suicide attempt. Dammit, he had _I Got You Babe_ playing in his head now.

Groaning one more time, Bilbo sat on his bed, and blindly slid his feet in his slippers while he was palming his tingling eyes. The previous night had really been trying, even after he had been able to calm down that fit of panic, the realisation that had hit him with full force and made him falter had haunted him for several hours afterward. He now knew he could not go on living his life like this: lonely, his mind would slowly go adrift and wreck like a cockle on a reef. This breath was brutally caught in his throat when he glimpsed the fickle shimmer of hope in this memories of the previous day. Dwalin had spoken of a friend of his who might be looking for somebody as well. Then he had thought he was only joking, but now he suspected him of being half-serious when he had offered to arrange a date. Oh god, he could not believe he was considering to once again play the silly game of a-date-with-friend-of-a-friend, he had succumbed once to the sirens call and it had served him right. It felt so undignified to be reduced to such means _again_ , what would his poor parents say if they were still alive to witness such a debacle?

With a sigh, Bilbo settled his hands on his kneecaps and let his eyes roam over his dimly lit bedroom until they settled on his nightstand. From the depths of his still hazy and downcast mind, something tried to surface and catch his attention. He furrowed his brows, glaring at the piece of furniture and trying to remember what he had forgotten. All remnants of sleepiness vanished when he jumped up with a start.

“Heck! The ring!” he all but yelped, as he unlocked the top drawer and yanked it open.

The envelope was still there, lying exactly where he had left it almost two days ago. With Ori and Dwalin coming for tea, it had totally slipped out his mind that he was supposed to bring it to a police station, and shrug off the threat it weighed over his head. Oh, Bilbo foreboded that he was about to live the worst day ever, it was as though a little neon-signboard reading “Crappy day ahead” was flashing alarmingly in his mind. His proper side outraged and promptly scolded him: he was a grown man, therefor he had responsibilities and obligations, bringing that valuable object which did not belonged to him to the relevant authorities was his duty as a concerned citizen. The point was that he had to stop whining and feeling sorry for himself for at least a few hours. Then he would be allowed to lock himself in his home, guzzle as much baked goods as he could swallow without being sick, mope while having a warm bubble bath and finally pick his phone and beg Oliver to clew him up with the first gay or bi cop Dwalin could find. Writing would have to wait for now.

Bilbo picked the envelope from the drawer before setting it on the nightstand, then he stood up and walked out of the bedroom to have a quick shower. Once he was dressed, his stubble shaved and his brown curly hair combed, he prepared breakfast. His movement and gestures were thoroughly calculated, just as anything related his everyday life, he found it extremely calming as it gave him the sensation of being in control of the rush of life, and at the moment nothing could soothe more his anxiety than putting a kettle on the stove. Bilbo eyed warily the aggressively white envelope on the table as though it was a snake ready to bite his hand if he tried to pick it up. Bilbo snapped out of his reverie when he heard the kettle whistle. He poured the boiling water in a mug and sat at the table, nursing the reassuringly hot mug of beverage between his cupped hands. His stomach felt so heavy that he did not dare eat anything, something unheard of a proper Baggins of Bag-End. Except he was not a Baggins of Bag-End anymore.

Bilbo hurried to give another direction to his train of thought and focus on his anxiety. He should not logically be this nervous, but he could not help it, it was eating him alive to know he might be doing something _wrong_. He thought about his parents and how disappointed they would be, well at least his father would be, knowing Belladonna Baggins, born Took, she might have been thrilled. Not that she approved of criminal activities, but she had some uncanny fascination for adventures, conspiracies and wrongly accused innocent people. It must be some job conditioning as she was a journalist, or a side effect of an over-consumption of mushy TV drama and novels. A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he sipped his tea and finally relaxed enough to munch a homemade shortbread finger; his mother had been a force to reckon with, a cheerful hurricane of a woman who could turn fierce when she felt the need to. Bilbo often wished he had inherited her bravery, maybe he would not be dealing with this ring case alone, otherwise.

He gulped the remaining tea and brushed the crumbles of biscuits off the table before putting the now empty mug in the sink, he washed and dried his trembling hands then pocketed the envelope and pull in one of his tweed blazer. He breathed deeply, like a freediver before plunging in the cold bleu ocean, and opened the door of his house.

*

“Are you positive, Norbert?” Gandalf asked sternly, boring the computer engineer’s with his steely gaze.

The whole staff had gathered in the office around a wide screen where all could see an black and white picture of William Baggins, wearing a pyjama, his curly hair still tousled and a stubble dusting his round chin.

“I am, it may look like any other envelope, but it can hardly be a coincidence. He kept that it locked in the drawer of his nightstand, as if it’s something precious. But now he’s about to bring it out of his house,” Nori winced, nursing a black eye and a split brow with an ice pack.

“Do we have any clue of where or to whom he’s planning to bring it? Thorin asked.

“None,” Boadach, if Thorin recalled correctly, answered. “In fact, we were counting on Mister Baggins to enlighten us on the content of this envelope and on whom had stabbed Gerhart Holtzfäller.”

“But, if Andrew guessed correctly, the lad’s under surveillance and will be followed.” Dori remarked, as he applied alcohol on a gash running on his brother’s cheekbone. “What if they find him before we do?”

“That’s not an option,” Gandalf uttered firmly, with that tone that clearly made them understand that they had no choice but to succeed. “I personally know William Baggins, I’m certain that he took no part in this mess. Dwayne, Glynn, you’ll team together, Barnaby and Boadach, I know that you’re both rather office workers but are you up to go on field?”

“Aye, I think so,” the Irishman confirmed.

“I’m up to it, Andy, don’t worry,” Balin assured him.

“Alright, Byron and Dominic will stay here to follow Bilbo and lead you. And Norbert, for God’s sake, take your day off and go home.”

Thorin did not react at first, then he frowned at the fact Gandalf had assigned him no task at all. Somehow, he felt offended: his loyalty had been proven, he was willing to continue working for the British government, he had not decided to retake his former job to be left aside. He was about to inquire about this issue to the older man when Gandalf spoke again.

“Gentlemen, my interests in this present case are more than professional, they’re also personal. I consider Bilbo Baggins as family, so if any kind of harm were to happen to him, do not doubt that I’ll make sure that the culprit would never be trusted with anything anymore in the future, not even the safety of Her Majesty’s corgis.”

Andrew’s voice was oddly dour and cold, as hard and merciless as steel upon steel, his eyes and his face carried the same chilly determination that almost made Thorin hesitate to approach him. But Thomas Durin was not one to cow easily he was made of a rougher stuff, especially not after living eight years in prison.

“Andrew, I think you’ve forgotten me,” he stated in a tone much too affirmative to fit his formulation.

“No, I haven’t,” Andy replied curtly. “Thorin, you’ve been back for only two days. You haven’t been checked by a psychologist yet, I won’t let you go on the field while none of us know how you could respond to a bad stimulus. You’d be a danger for yourself and your partners.”

Thorin opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it and snapped it close, instead he pursed his thin lips. He fought the temptation of voicing his frustration by balling his fists, distracted by the annoying inner voice whispering that Andy’s reasoning was perfectly making sense.

“Then, what am I supposed to do?” he asked darkly between tightened jaws, glaring at his mentor. “You ask me to sit idly and wait for things to happen?”

“Yes, Thorin,” Andrew retorted, his patience running thin. “That’s exactly what I’m asking you, just sit down, be quiet, watch how things turn out, listen and learn, you’ve many years to catch up. And above all, don’t strain yourself, I know you well enough to be certain you’d overexert yourself if I didn’t tell you not to.”

Thorin couldn’t help himself any longer, an irritated grunt slipped past his lips. Grey squeezed his eyelids shut a brief moment to gather the last crumbs of composure he still had before opening his steely eyes and turning toward Thorin

“Listen…I know you only want to prove your worth, to me and to yourself. And it’s okay -don’t interrupt me, please.” Gandalf was holding a placating hand while he swallowed thickly. “It’s okay, because that’s understandable. But that’s not the right moment to show off the thickness of your biceps, Tom: we’re currently facing something unknown and I don’t like it. Don’t take it personally but I cannot trust you on working on field for the time being.”

Thorin felt that the conversation was over and he would not be able to sway Grey, any other attempt would be a loss of time and energy, so he pulled on his leather jacket, turned around and stomped away, letting a sighing Gandalf in his stride. He stormed out of the room, ignoring the awkward looks he received from his colleagues, he did not need to meet their gazes to know what he would see in them: the diffidence of a man standing a mere meters away from a living tiger. It was clear enough now that despite all his pretty words, Gandalf did not trust him and had only accepted to take him back to keep an eye on his every actions.

Once he heard the glass door close behind him, he hurried to lean against the nearest wall, buried his face in his hands and let out a loud groan. Why did he have to screw everything up these days? It was as though somebody else was controlling his mouth and he was only a passive spectator of his own destructive behaviour. He hated this, he hated not being able to control his own self, he felt helpless and Thorin was sick of being helpless, he had lived with this feeling long enough.

Thorin let his face go and gently bumped his head against the concrete wall, then he vowed to never let anyone control or dominate him. He was going to prove Gandalf that he still was a good agent and not a poor little scarred mess, all the while playing along the rules he had set. What was the precise words he had used? “Sit and be quiet”. A cunning smile curved Thorin lips: if he was quick enough, he would be able to catch up to Dwalin before he left.

*

Bilbo was walking as quickly as he was enabled by his short legs, the heavy weight of the ring in his pocket only spurring his feeling of urgency. He felt like racing against the course of events which would throw him in a maelstrom of misinterpretations and troubles, and currently his only wish and goal was to cross first finish-line and let his life return to its satisfyingly peaceful initial state.

A red light at a crossroad halted him in his purposeful stride and obliged him to wait, while his whole body itched to keep going until this whole unsavoury business met its end. Bilbo was impatiently drumming his left foot on the concrete slab when he felt a steel-strong hand painfully enclosing his upper arm. The short man yelped before looking down at the large paw tightened around his biceps, then up toward a sinister face with a lip twisted by a scar running on all his right cheek, cold blues eyes and reddish short hair. Bilbo cringed, panic beginning to take hold of him, but the man easily held him in place before slowly leaning toward him. Bilbo felt his hot breath on his ear, the man carried the sickening smell of cold cigarette ashes, a shot of fear raised in his spirit like a geyser. He opened his mouth to shout for help, for anything that would make this man let go, but before any sound could escape his mouth, the rough voice of man whispered in his ear.

“You better shut up if you want to keep your tongue,” he said with these very recognisable Swedish intonations.

Bilbo’s teeth clicked slightly when he shut his mouth, now feeling a sheen of sweat coating his hands, his left one tightening in his pocket around the envelope.

“What do you want? If it’s my wallet, take it and leave me alone,” Bilbo managed to squeak.

“I don’t give a fuck about your wallet, you little wimp. I know you have the ring, my boss want it back. It’s that simple.”

All trace of blood left Bilbo’s face, he could literally feel his lips blemish. The light turned green and the man firmly led him through the street, in spite of his wobbling legs. Who the hell was the owner of this ring? Who would send a…what, a henchman? ...to get it back?

“Where is it?” the man asked harshly as he tightened his hand around Bilbo’s arm, drawing a pained gasp out of him. This would definitively leave an ugly bruise later, well if there is a later of course. The realization hit Bilbo hard: this monster of a man certainly could snap his neck like a twig or smother him with his bare hands, he was able to kill him if Bilbo did not give him a satisfying answer. Though some functional part of his fear-petrified brain came to the conclusion that more was certainly at stake than a fine piece of jewellery, and it was maybe not the best thing to do to simply hand the envelope and disappear. Besides, his guts were telling him that he would surely be killed whether he collaborated or not. Bilbo glanced up at the man towering him: he was strong and taller than him, but not that much, if he was smart enough –and reckless, and daring- he would manage to get rid of him and run as quickly as he could to the nearest policeman to seek protection.

“I… I don’t…I don’t have it on me, i-it’s in my…Oh god, in my nightstand,” he stuttered, when he find out he still had not replied to the henchman’s question.

“Are you sure it’s not in your pocket and that you’re not lying to me?”

Heck! Bilbo was a poor liar, he had lost enough at poker against Ori to know that for sure, but he did not expect to be that bad. He had to find an idea and be very quick. His eyes quickly roamed over the street until they met the round sign indicating the entry of the underground station of Regent’s Park, and the stairs descending into the ground. An idea flashed in his mind with the intensity of a lightening: it might be very painful if he did not do it properly, and if he failed…Bilbo suddenly felt the weight of the pounds he had packed on during the latest years. He really should have stick to his resolution to go job every now and then.

“I-I have nothing in my pockets, I assure you. Check it yourself,” Bilbo said, his voice trembling a his eyes continuously went from the stairs to the man who was already loosening his grip on his arm as his other hand reached for Bilbo’s pockets.

Bilbo took his chance and launched himself against the henchman, his frail shoulder connected him right in the stomach. The man gasped and faltered, giving Bilbo the chance to shove him toward the stairs. The man shouted in pain as he fell down the stairs under the bemused looks of the passer-by. Bilbo followed him, climbing down the stairs, fumbling through his pockets for his Oyster Card, oblivious to the concerned whispers buzzing in his ears. He almost cried in relief when he found it, then he felt a sharp tug on his ankle, almost dislocating it from its socket. He turned his head and looked down just in time to see a face bloodied by a nasty gash on a brow and two cold eyes burning with fury and hatred. Acting on an impulse, Bilbo’s feet shot and hit the man’s jaw. A disgusting gurgle escaped his mouth accompanied by a mix of blood and saliva. The henchman’s fingers glazed around William’s freed ankle, who did not wait for the shocked crowd to react and bar his escape road. The turnstile biped before letting him in. Behind him, the shouts for help faded as the flow of people around him tightened, offering him the best camouflage he could dream of.

He did not want to settle down and cool off, though. He had to keep moving, otherwise the aftershock would overwhelm him and he could not allow himself to breakdown when he was still vulnerable. Besides if began to cry or vomit, he would only attract attention, so he repressed the unstable amalgam of exhilarating relief, disgust for the heady metallic smell of blood lingering in his nose, and pure fear. He focused instead on the beats of his heart in is ribcage. The steady pulse he felt even in the pulp of his fingertips grounded him. He followed the flow of bodies toward the platform of the Bakerloo line. He had no idea of which direction he was going but it barely mattered right now. His foremost concern was to get the hell out of there alive, he would pounder where to go and what to do when he would not have to watch over his shoulder and fear for his life.

Steel ground on steel and a motor hummed lowly on the platform as a train came in and stopped in front of Bilbo. Still feeling hazy, he mechanically followed the other passengers in the nearest car. He chose to stay up, tucked between two tall men who would easily conceal his thinner frame. William indulged himself a moment of relief and a sigh, then he let himself be cradled by the swaying of the train.

At the Edgware Road station, though just before the doors shut, he saw a menacing figure coming into the car and beginning to scrutinize the passengers. It was not the same man that Bilbo had left lying on the cold dirty ground, he was slightly smaller and thinner, though his limbs were still thick. He had dark brown eyes and raven-black greasy hair framing a sun-tanned face. There was an unpleasant fierceness in his features, a predatory glitter in his eyes. And Bilbo knew that the man was there for him.

Bilbo huddled up behind the two unassuming men planning an outing in a pub for the evening, waiting for the train to reach the next station, bolt out and run for his life. He kept glancing discretely toward his new stalker, all the while trying to look perfectly normal and not draw attention. For the first time in a long time, he was painfully self-conscious of his colourful taste in cloth: he must be as obvious as a beacon in the night with his vibrantly blue shirt, yellow bow-tie and tartan tweed blazer. Fat beads of sweat were rolling down his spine, plastering the fabric of his shirt against his moist skin. The sound of casual chatter seemed to die off in the car and Bilbo’s ears were soon only filled by the sound of a silence only disturbed by his breath. Time seemed to stretch like a rubber band, almost to the point of snapping or suddenly shrinking back to its former shape with a stinging pain. Bilbo was just as apprehensive about its endlessly growing span as he was about the inescapable that would force it force back to its past state.

The eerie daze infusing his brain and inhibiting the most rational part of his mind was suddenly torn apart when the train slowed down before entering in Paddington station. Still confused, Bilbo found out that he had lost track of the stalker. He search the rain for the man until he met his dark unforgiving gaze. Both froze the span of an instant before Bilbo sprang toward the nearest door. In his panicked hast of climbing down, he accidently shoved a woman and tripped over a grocery bag, earning a few disapproving glares and rude insults. Once on the platform, he ran against the flow of passengers, sometimes elbowing his way through the crowd toward the nearest exit sign, following it like a ship in a tempest let itself be led by a lighthouse.

Bilbo did not dare look over his shoulder, fearing to find the man a few steps away behind him. The heat was smothering him. His sweat was trickling in his eyes was blinding him. His breathing was growing shallow and laborious. A side stitch was nestling under his left ribs, viciously clawing his innards.

Bilbo had to stop a moment, as much because of the pain, his short breath as because he had let himself be dragged by the traitorous crowd and had lost of sight the exit sign. This eyes franticly met unknown and blank faces, everybody oblivious to his obvious distress and his dishevelled appearance. Among these emotionless automatons, Bilbo saw the dark-eyed man walking right toward him. All thoughts of finding the exit was immediately obliterated from his head. Only the primal fear of the prey prevailed in this instant. He ran in a less crowded corridor with the fool hope that he could run more at his ease and outrun his stalker. He had barely stepped on the first white tiles of the corridor when he was hit by the idea that he would certainly not be the only one who could run faster in here, then he remembered that he had always sucked in physical education. He tried to run faster, but a strong grip captured his wrist and tugged on the sleeve of his coat. Bilbo heard the seams crack at the shoulder and reluctantly turned around to himself face to face with the dark-haired man, a victorious and cruel smile disclosing fake teeth. A shudder crept on Bilbo’s skin, and fear flooded and petrified him like plaster. He could glimpse in the twin dark pits of his eyes the dreadful beast hiding behind this human mask. However, he was ripped away from the dark abyss of the stranger’s mind when a bulky and faintly familiar form tackled the man to the ground.

Bilbo shook himself and took his cue to leave while he still could. He barely heard the loud thud of a fist crashing on a face right behind him as he resumed his flight. Bilbo noticed the heavy and fast footsteps behind him way too late to enact before two strong arms belted him and effortlessly lifted him from the ground. Bilbo could not prevent the loud and terrified yelp from resonating in the hallway against the metallic tiles of the walls. Bilbo was pinned against a granite-hard chest and began to shake like a leaf in a bitter wind, then his composure went adrift and he miserably crumbled. The first broken sob rattled him as he tried to restrain himself, his fingers clutching the leather clad arms holding him tight.

“Shush,” a deep voice breathed next to his hear. “You’ve nothing to fear anymore. It’s over.”

Bilbo cranked his head up to gape dumbly as he looked in the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen in his whole life. They were so different from his own prussian blue ones, his were pale and serene like a summer sky; earnest and soothing. Oh but the man was so handsome, even without taking account of his eyes: his raven black short hair and cropped beard contrasted with the clear hue of a skin barely exposed to sun. His sharp nose and high cheekbones gave him a stern but regal aura that must have broken more than one heart. The thin lips of the man curved slightly upward in a reassuring and charming smile. He only had to snap his fingers and Bilbo would fall in his arms, well…

“You’re safe now,” the man said.

Still upset and shaking, Bilbo tried to offer the man a shy smile.

“Th-thank you, Sir,” he stammered helplessly at his knight in shining armour.

“I’m just doing my job, Sir,” he replied a bit curtly before loosening his grip over Bilbo, then he turned his head to shout over his shoulder. “How are you doing, Dwalin?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened when he saw Dwalin getting up, dragging up the man who had pursued Bilbo through the underground, his wrist now cuffed.

“Alright, alright,” Dwalin groaned massaging his jaw, then he set his dark green eyes on him. “Hi, Bill. How are you?”

Bilbo flinched slightly. Something was off with Dwalin, he was not the same friendly man he had entertained in his parlour and ate cake with the previous afternoon. He looked gruffer, more dangerous and it had nothing to do with him doing his job right now. No felt this animosity and defiance directed toward him.

“Now, if you’d be kind enough to follow us without resisting, I think we have a few things to tell each other.”

So Bilbo followed them out of the train station, Dwalin’s colleagues’ hand still wound around his arm led him to a few dark cars parked not very far in the street. He was shoved inside one of them, without a single unnecessary word. When the car moved and joined London’s ballet of cabs and double-deckers, Bilbo had the sudden feeling that things would go downhill from this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delayed update, I've quite busy as of late.
> 
> Please leave a kudo or a comment, these help me getting better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge "thank you" to [DragonsinGondolin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin) for beta-reading this chapter and their precious insight.
> 
> The "soundtrack" for this fic has been edited, the link is just [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_6Q4KKfBeBBq8y5rxAfDEKpFGVxVSIbE)
> 
> You can still join me on my [tumblr](http://yachaer.tumblr.com)

As an animal of habit, William Baggins viscerally hated what was unexpected. In his opinion, it was the source of all chaos on Earth: at first, you are late on schedule and miss tea, then you forget to pay the electricity bill, and later you get expelled from your own house. Physicists call this phenomenon the Butterfly Effect: a small, seemingly insignificant, event happens -at first it has little to no consequences- then things begin to differ from what was initially supposed to happen and finally the course of events becomes unpredictable and the consequences far from being insignificant. Bilbo had heard of that overused concept more than once, though he vaguely thought it only applied to butterflies and hurricanes. He would never have believed that being bumped into by a tall German man could be linked to the sensibility to initial conditions and would cause a tidal wave of non-linear consequences.

Sitting on an uncomfortable metallic chair and facing an equally hostile table and a window sending him back his own reflection, Bilbo let his eyes roam over a room he already knew like the back of his hand: four black walls, a door, the cliché way-mirror and nothing, nothing, nothing. Maybe an hour earlier, the car he had been shoved into had parked in front of Thames House, then Dwalin had opened his door for him, gripped his arm and led him into the building. Learning that Officer Dwayne McFundin was actually an agent of MI-5 had struck poor Mister Baggins like thunder, but when anger had finally risen in the pit of his stomach to blaze under the skin of his face, it was too late. He was alone in the interrogation room with his own reflection for only spectator. Bilbo had waited, sitting straight on his chair, rehearsing the indignant soliloquy he intended to recite before Dwayne.

When the door opened and Dwayne came in, Bilbo remained perfectly composed, or at least he tried to.

“Mister Baggins,” Dwayne greeted him formally.

Bilbo did not return the politeness of acknowledging his presence. He barely looked at him. But it was enough for Bilbo to notice the hints of hurt on the taller man’s face as he sat in front of him, but soon these traces of emotions were chased away from his features.

“The matter is serious, Mister Baggins,” he resumed, his voice sounding distantly professional now. “A man died and you’re involved in this crime, though quite distantly. We hope that your input will help us shed some light on this case.”

He opened the folder he had brought in with him and slid a photograph toward Bilbo who refused to look down, keeping his stern stare focused on the man facing him.

“Does he know?” he blurted, forgetting the tirade he had patiently crafted in his mind.

Dwayne seemed to having been caught off guard for a moment , before regaining a steady composure.

“This a personal matter of no importance in-” he began.

“It is important,” Bilbo interrupted him. “Does he know?”

“Mister Baggins, please focus-”

“I did nothing wrong, I know nothing, and I won’t tell you anything more,” Bilbo replied angrily, before stubbornly leaning on his chair.

Dwalin stood up, a vein pulsating erratically on his bald forehead motioning Bilbo to shut up if he wanted to keep the full mobility of his legs. The taller man breathed deeply in before resuming the interrogation.

“You obviously don’t understand that your own safety is compromised, and by remaining silent you endanger yourself and your loved ones. I may not have known you for that long, but you gave me the impression of being a sensible man, a sensible man would accept to work with us.”

Bilbo merely glared contemptuously at him. If Dwayne though that he would let himself be fooled by petty flattery, then he had not understood what kind of man a Baggins was.

“Fine. Suit yourself. You’re not leaving till we’ve the answers we’re looking for,” Dwalin groaned as he stood up.

Bilbo gasped involuntarily, his eyes wide.

“W-what!? But you can’t!” he exclaimed, utterly outraged. “I have rights and if you have no reason to charge me, you have to release me!”

“But we have,” Dwalin crooned dangerously, a triumphant smile twisting his bearded face. “You did broke a man’s jaw, we can charge you for assault and battery.”

Bilbo blanched at that; he was an honest man, he paid his bills on time and without a complaint, he had always respected the rules and the laws. He had never even been fined for parking wrongly, how was he supposed to react? And above all, what had he done to deserve such a harsh treatment.

“I’ll let you think this through for an hour or two, then I’ll come back to have your answer. I sincerely hope that it will be a tad wiser then.”

Dwalin used Bilbo’s utter and desperate confusion to exit the room, slamming the door behind him.

*

Across the way-mirror, Andrew was staring at poor William. The man was sporting a look of such pained confusion that Andrew could almost feel his heart aching at the mere sight. He was Bilbo’s godfather after all. He had been a part of this boy’s life from the very beginning; he had offered him his first stuffed animal, had held his tiny chubby hand as they wandered through the woods and later he had been a trusted father figure after Bungo’s passing. As Bilbo buried his curly-haired head in his hands, a surge of bitter guilt began to torment him. The last time Andrew had seen Belladonna at the hospital, he had promised her that he would look after her son as though he was his. Andy was so fond of the young man that it had only been natural for him. So when Belladonna had given up her fight against cancer and her heart stopped to beat, Andrew had forbidden himself to be overwhelmed by grief. He had focused on the poor young man whose only remaining relatives were a bunch of old disapproving aunts, indifferent uncles and contemptuous cousins. He had supported him at the funeral, glaring in his stead at the hostile family of his best friend - he might even have threatened that loathsome Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Then, when the ordeal had been over with, Gandalf had helped him with copping and living on.

Now that he was looking at his godson, Andrew could not help but think that he had failed Belladonna, that it was his fault if Bilbo was now in great danger, even though all this mayhem found its origin in an accident. The younger man had to tell them everything he knew, otherwise Gandalf would not be able to provide him any help. Of course he could step into the room himself but the problem was the same as Dwalin’s: Bilbo did not know that Gandalf was an agent of MI-5. For him he was only a retired lawyer.

“How are things going with this one?” Balin asked him as he came into the room.

Gandalf instinctively stiffened and clasped his hands behind his back, immediately concealing his weakened and worried state.

“Disappointingly. How is the Swedish?” Gandalf replied sternly.

“Though he cannot speak because of his jaw, we managed to identify him: his name is Axel Ericson, born in Malmö in 1973. He’s notoriously bounded with the Russian mafia.”

Gandalf hummed noncommittally, just as a flushed and fuming Dwalin sprang in, slamming the door strongly enough to rattle the glass of the window.

“This one is damn obstinate!” he growled. “I won’t manage to sway him, he knows me and I know him.”

“On the contrary, it should be easier,” Balin uttered, his brows arched.

“He doesn’t trust me anymore,” his younger brother merely said, which kindled a light of understanding in Balin’s eyes. “I hope things are going better with the other two.”

“We were discussing that when you came in,” Balin said. “So as I said Ericson won’t talk, for once because he cannot technically, and also because the pain-killers kind of… haze his mind.”

“And how is Glynn doing with the Hungarian?”

“Poorly. The man is staying still with his arms crossed and just…glaring at him.”

“Does the man at least has a name?”

“Byron managed to find it, it’s something like Oszkàr Erdös…, no Eötvös, a former police officer of Budapest, no real need to tell you why he got fired.”

“Anything else?”

“No, nothing worth being mentioned. Either Erdös is really good and it’s the first time he gets caught or he’s a newbie in the business.”

“If it’s indeed the case he’ll give us answers more easily than Ericson. Dwayne, I think it’d be wise if I interrogate Mister Baggins myself.”

Gandalf did not need to glance over his shoulder to envision the look of surprise and scepticism on his agents’ faces.

“He’s known me his whole life, he’ll be furious to learn that I hid the truth from him but eventually he’ll tell me everything he has to say. I know which button I need to push to bring him to help us.”

William still looked prostrated, he was staring at the palms of his small hands as though it was the reassurance to each of his worries or as if the thread of his destiny was written in the lines and creases engraved on his skin. For the first time in a long while, Sir Andrew Grey was dreading a conversation. After Bella’s death, Bill had been the only remaining person on Earth he cherished. He had chosen to remain a bachelor and any relatives he might still have had not heard of him for so long that they must have forgotten his existence. And in the middle of this neglected personal life, as arid, cold and empty as a wasteland, there was him, William Robert Baggins. So it probably was motivated by selfishness, but the very though that Bill might despise him once he stepped inside this room, that he might look at him with the same contempt he had seen in his grey-blue eyes as he had sparred a glance at Dwalin, made him feel so much older and sad that he was almost tempted to ask anyone else to step in in his stead.

He had promised though. He had promised that he would look after Bilbo and shield him from the bitter and cruel vicissitudes of life. His safety was more important that the affection a young man had for an old eccentric one.

*

Thomas had realised he had breached a limit the instant his look had crossed Gandalf’s: the grey of his eyes had been of the same dark shade as thunderous clouds. His plan was risky, he was fully aware of that, even if nothing had gone south, on the contrary, he would certainly be blamed for using the ambiguity of Gandalf’s formulation to do the exact opposite of what had been asked of him. But, somehow, the thrill of disobeying had been stronger than his better judgment. He was not oblivious enough not to recognize that his own behaviour was reckless and immature in addition to being typical of a teenager eager to spite his parents. He resented himself for allowing this small revenge to get amalgamated with his will to prove his worth, and his resentment would probably grow once Andrew would have decided what punishment was fit to kill in the egg his defiant tendencies. So he took Gandalf’s glare as a dismissal until his attendance would be required.

It had begun to rain while he was at Thames House, but getting soaked seemed a small inconvenience compared to the ordeal of bearing the cold indifference of strangers or his colleagues’ sympathetic glances. Besides, the grey sky over London provided an ideal décor for his small personal tragedy. He looked at the rows of trees which dripping canopy was turning ochre as he walked along the Thames toward the Houses of Parliament. He did not want to get lost in the tight crowd of tourists taking picture of themselves next to Big Ben or queuing to get a ride on the London Eye; the promiscuity and the feeling of being crushed between anonymous bodies made him cringe. So he made everything I could to avoid the tourists and the artificial warmth they would provide him, a warmth which to which his flesh was impervious. He walked a bit more until he got tired and settled on a bench, not that far from Charring Cross Road. He knew that he must have looked as sad and miserable as a wet stray dog with his hair and beard plastered against his face - he could tell by the way passers-by seemed to avoid him like a plague-stricken.

From time to time a big drop of water fell from the withered leaves above his head to land on his shoulder, while smaller ones rolled from his head to the collar of his leather jacket, then to his shirt which was already moist due to his energetic pace. The cold was seeping into his hands and his feet, waves after waves of shivers rippling through his limbs, but Thorin though little of it, he was used to the unpleasantness of being cold, neither was he unfamiliar with that feeling of drowning after losing one’s footing, of powerlessly watching one’s life going out of control. No, his problem was that it was happening again, in spite of all his efforts to keep his impulsive temper in check. It got the best of him. He probably should have given more thought to the possibility of leaving service and not have dismissed it so promptly. Not that it mattered a lot as Andrew would fire him before the end of his first day back to work, anyway.

Thorin chuckled darkly thinking about how pathetic he was, it was quite the achievement indeed. Nobody was so bad at their work that they were thanked only after the first day. How he wished that Frerin was here with him. He would laugh at him and call him Mister Moody in a way that would make Thorin burst into laughter. Fred had that strange gift of cheering people up all the while mocking them. He could make a heartbreak look like a mere sentimental disappointment. Oh god, he missed his troublesome little brother. This loss felt like a hollowness in his chest, a pit that craved to be filled; he had to see him. This urge burst in his mind as an obvious fact and with such might that it overcame all his fears and insecurities. He needed to see his brother, no matter how much it would pain him to gaze upon his motionless body, if only to strengthen his will or bring him an ounce of solace.

As he stood from the bench, Thorin checked on his phone the address of the hospital where Frerin was taken care of. He was at the University College Hospital. Still reluctant to go in such a crowded place, Thorin preferred walking over taking the Tube; he was after all already dripping wet, so it made little difference whether he walked or not. Though it seemed it did according to the look the nurse at the reception cast him when he crossed the doors of the hospital. Thorin blinked away the droplets clinging to his eyelashes before running a cold hand in his soaked hair to flatten them to give himself the resemblance of something remotely human. He tried for a few seconds to even his breathing, still quick after the straddling pace of his walk, and strode to the receptionist, the sole of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

“Good morning, I’m looking for Frederick Durin’s room, please.”

The nurse, a greying rotund woman wearing the traditional blue scrub, squinted at him behind her stern glasses as she pursed her already thin lips.

“Are you a relative?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m his elder brother, Thomas Durin.”

The nurse gauged him a bit more before giving him with obvious reluctance the number of Frerin’s room. Thorin thanked her curtly before turning around and pressing the call button of the nearest lift.

There was a reason motivating Thorin’s visceral hatred for hospitals: in spite of all the artifices used to conceal it, they remained a place of death and suffering. The faint smell of antiseptic and bleach impregnated the endless hallways; sometimes it only lingered, masked by a most pleasant one, but it was there nonetheless. Thorin knew no homely hospital, and this one was no exception; the hushed atmosphere, the dull colour of the walls, the waxed linoleum reflecting the scorching light of the neon tubes: everything looked hostile and disgustingly sanitized. It somewhat reminded him of a house of mirrors which he had gotten lost in when he was ten.

They had gone for the summer holiday on the southern coast, near Brighton. Their parents had brought them to a fun fair, and after a day of having rides on a merry-go-round, eating cotton candy and shooting balloons, they had seen that mirrors house. Of course it had been Frerin’s idea to go in, and Thorin had naively accepted to go along, forgetting that his younger brother was a malicious little being, a prank always in his mind. After a few minutes of turning round in circles, Fred had managed to sneak away from his elder brother and find the exit on his own. At first, when he had found out that Frerin was not behind him anymore, Thorin had looked for him and after having failed to find him, he had panicked.

The following instants were a blur he still had difficulties to recall. He still remembered that he had frantically run in every direction, calling out his younger brother. He was terrified and disoriented. Everywhere he had looked, he had met his own livid face and startled blue eyes. He had not even been worried about himself - what he had actually dreaded was that his little brother was lost and alone somewhere in this maze. He had not even seen the mirror until its cold surface shattered against his skull and gashed the thin skin of his brow. He must have fainted then, for the next thing he remembered was lying in his mother’s arms as his father bellowed at a whimpering Frederic and Dis clung to the teddy bear their father had won for her.

But Thorin was not a child anymore, he was not afraid of losing his way in a maze of trompe-l’oeil, though the idea of losing his family still held power over him. After recalling that day at the funfair, Thomas almost expected to find Frerin’s bed empty when he crossed the door of his room, but the bed was very much occupied. The ECG was beeping regularly, Thorin focused on the tiny dot lazily tracing mountains and valleys on a screen. When he could not pretend anymore that the man lying before him was not his brother, he dared lowering his gaze on the face resting on the pillow.

Frerin’s cheeks were so gaunt, his eyes so sunken in their sockets. It looked like there was no flesh left to sustain the sallow skin, nothing but his skeleton. His Durin nose peaked at the rim of an unkempt dark ginger beard, thin and sharp like the blade of a knife, his honey-blond hair fanned on the white pillow like the halo of a byzantine icon. Thorin would have sworn that his brother was dead if it was not for the regular heaving of his chest or the faint wheezing of his breath between his chapped lips.

Now that he had set his eyes on him, Thorin could not look away, even though each passing second made him feel a bit more self-conscious. His body felt too big, his limbs too heavy and clumsy. He tentatively reached for the armrest of the armchair standing next to the bed, then allowed himself to sit.

Thorin remained still, staring at his knees, almost too stunned to breathe, until he dared  looking up again. He gingerly extended his hand to take his brother’s thin one. The fingers felt too fragile between his own, he was sure that he only had to squeeze them and the bones would shatter like glass spindles.

“Hi Frerin,” he finally whispered. “It’s been a long time, I’m sorry for not coming sooner but I’ve been quite busy for the past eight years. I’ve been in prison, you know. For the country’s sake, they say.”

Thorin kept silent for a moment, foolishly hoping that his brother would open his eyes, smirk and give him a piece of his infamous dry sarcasm. But of course, his brother stubbornly kept his eyelids closed, as if to infuriate him. Frerin had always been a brat.

“On my way here, I remembered the time you abandoned me in that house of mirrors. I still can see the scar on my brow every morning, you know,” Thorin chuckled. “I think I’ve never seen Dad that mad, since then. And, god, how much you cried.”

Suddenly, a memory surfaced in Thorin’s mind. After the incident, Frerin had spent days clinging to his elder brother, no little amount of guilt and shame shining in his eyes, sometimes along with unshed tears, and even later he stopped playing pranks on him, shifting to teasing. At the time, Thorin had been too young to really understand why his brother’s behaviour toward him had changed, but now it was crystal clear.

“Have you ever forgiven yourself that prank you played on me? Is that because you couldn’t that you put so much effort in trying to gain my own forgiveness?”

Thorin swallowed thickly.

“You’re such a dork. You should have known that you were fully forgiven.”

Thorin dared squeezing his brother’s hand and to his utter relief he heard no bone crack.

“Actually, I should be the one apologizing. I’ve left you all alone when I should have been there when Mom and Dad died. I should have been there when Vincent passed away to shoulder the burden of the eldest instead of you. But you did well, it’s certainly thanks to you that Dis is still standing. You took care of them so well that the boys prefer you over me.”

Thorin chuckled, softly, as though not to disturb his brother’s rest.

“They couldn’t stop singing your praise and it didn’t sound right, so be assured that I disabused them. I told them the worst things about you, don’t hold it against me but Dis is already quite mad at me and I just need some affection.”

Thorin noticed out of the corner of his eye a framed photograph set on Frerin’s nightstand. Thorin remembered it. It was the last picture of the whole family that must have been taken, as two days later he had flown to Moscow. It had been taken the day of his father’s sixtieth birthday, his mother had only invited the closest family at Thrain’s request. His father had been quite under the weather at the time, unhappy to enter a new decade of his life and getting a bit closer to his end. Thorin had worried for his father, but his concerns had flown away when he had seen the sullen face of his father smoothen then being split by his grandsons’ antics. After a memorable lunch which concluded on his mother’s famous lime cheesecake, her husband’s guilty pleasure, they had gathered in the backyard of his parents’ house.

For Thorin, it had been his last day of happiness, but he could not bring himself to feel sad when he peered at this remnant of merrier day. Instead, he could almost feel the slight acidity of lime on his tongue, the warmth of a spring’s breeze on his face. His smile mirrored the one his younger self was sporting as he was standing shoulder to shoulder besides Frerin who had worn that ridiculous musketeer style goatee at the time. Dis and Vincent were next to them, as different as night and day: her with raven black hair and clear blue eyes and him with a golden mane and chocolate irises, but the harmony of their couple showed in the serene glow of their smiles. Their sons’ ones on the other hand were much more communicative in their glee, Kili on his grandfather’s lap and Fili next to his grandmother, all four of them sitting on the garden bench, looking as if the had been having the time of their lives.

Thorin had a sudden epiphany: he could not afford to lose his footing and be a burden to his family; they had suffered enough from his absence. It was high time he took himself in hand and stood tall to shoulder the weight of his family’s grief.

“You can take your time to rest, little brother. Don’t worry I’ll take good care of Dis and the boys,” Thorin said as he set the frame back at its rightful place. “I have to go now. Duty calls but I’ll come back soon, I promise.”

Thorin stood before casting Frerin a last sight. He had to go back to Thames House to receive his lecture from the old Gandalf, he would swallow his pride and bear it without a single complaint. He needed this job to gain stability and secure his brand new life, there was no way he would ruin his new chance by acting recklessly or going it alone. He only hoped that his earlier bravado had not antagonized Gandalf to him, otherwise he might well end up ensuring the security of the parking lot.

*

Bilbo had more than enough time to meditate Dwayne’s last words. He knew he had overreacted and blown out of proportion the lies he had told him about his true profession. Now that he had calmed down it seemed rather obvious that a spy would not reveal to a stranger the true nature of his professional activities. What saddened him greatly though was that Ori might have been used by McFundin as a mere mean to an end. It would break his heart, the poor fellow. He was so entranced and so sure that he had found Mister Right... it hurt him to just think of the stunned pain he would see on his friend’s face when he would learn the truth. This very moment, he truly despised Dwayne McFundin, but he would cooperate with this arsehole nonetheless as something was definitely wrong with that ring and he wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible; after all it had been his very intention when he had pocketed it this very morning.

When he heard the door being unlocked, he turned his head over his shoulder, ready to express in a single look all the contempt he felt for McFundin. But it was not the tall and burly man that crossed it, it was a slender old man with grey hair wearing an elegant tartan grey suit and a blue tie. His clear eyes seemed to gleam in the middle of his wrinkled face like two silver coins when he looked down at him. In spite of his hunched shoulders that betrayed the sudden weight of years and concerns, Bilbo recognized one of the faces that had inhabited his memory from his very prime years.

“Andrew?” Bilbo asked in disbelief. “But…What are you doing here? I didn’t get the chance to call you yet…”

“Hello William,” Sir Grey sighed, ignoring Bilbo’s rambling. “You’re in serious trouble, you know? And I’m not talking about a mere case of battery, even if the poor sod whose jaw you broke will spend a long time eating his meals with a straw.”

Bilbo watched, stunned, Andrew striding to the chair facing him and sitting slowly and only then did the writer notice the folder under Andy’s arm.

“You probably won’t like what I’m about to tell you but it’s time you know the truth,” he began before pausing. “I’m not a lawyer as you have always been told, or at least I’ve not been one for about forty years. Well, to formulate it bluntly, I’m actually Dwalin’s boss. I’m a spy too.”

Bilbo felt a huge emptiness in the pit of his stomach, as though the earth crust had split open in a deep gap beneath his feet. He had to blink away the vertigo that took him and made him sway slightlyon his chair. So this had been a lie too, a pillar of sand on which he had built  part of his life after his mother’s passing. He had trusted Gandalf ever since he was a kid, he had been a man he had looked up to: somebody clever, self-confident and elegant. Everything spun around him. When he was sixteen, Gandalf had been the very first person to whom Bilbo had told the truth to about his sexual orientation, and he had not judged him, he had not lectured him. No, he had taken him in his arms before giving him tips to seduce other guys. And now he discovered that he man he had always known, that had been a fatherly figure, had been a fake as well.

“I know it is quite a shocking discovery for you. It was a mistake not to tell you earlier but it never seemed to be the right moment. But right now is not the moment to doubt me or resent me, Bilbo. You have to trust me like you always have before; I’ve not become a whole new person.”

Suddenly, anger flared and blinded him. His whole world had toppled into chaos and was lying shattered at his feet, and now he was finding out that it had been a cardboard décor full of smoke and mirrors where loved ones wore masks. He was confused, he was lost and he felt his life was not his own but a toy in someone else’s hands. He didn’t know anymore what or who he was supposed to believe.

“Bilbo-“

“Tell me!” Bilbo spat. “Tell me how I’m supposed to trust you? How am I supposed to trust a liar?”

Gandalf held up his hands in a placating gesture, disappointment visible in his eyes, but it only stirred up his frustration and resentment.

“Was it you who sent the German and placed the envelope in my pocket? Is that because of you that I got threatened today?”

“William, you have to understand-“

“I’m sick of being understanding! I don’t want to be manipulated any longer, so tell me what you want from me then let me go, and disappear from my life!”

Bilbo took a long intake of breath, leaving some time to Andrew to gather his thoughts. The old man was keeping his eyes shut and his fingers intertwined on the table before him, a fleeting limpness seemed to cross his face before his features regained their firmness.

“Unfortunately, you cannot leave, Bilbo.”

The younger man was about to object petulantly, but Andrew made him lose his momentum with a single stern glance.

“As I said earlier, you’re in serious trouble and if I let you go, your survival would be more than compromised. So, will you let me explain the situation to you?”

Bilbo and Gandalf stared steadily at each other without exchanging a word, but it seemed to be enough of an assent for Andrew, for he began his explanation.

“The man who gave you the envelope was not one of our agents. His name was Gerhart Holtzfäller. He was, indeed, as he’s now lying on a morgue table. His body was found in the river the day before yesterday. He has been deadly stabbed in the chest, the blade entered between two ribs and punctured a lung. He didn’t even get the time to drown.”

Bilbo held his breath. That weird but endearing German was dead, and not an accidental death. He had been murdered.

“I won’t show you the photos, you look shaken enough. Anyway, Holtzfäller was quite the shady character; though he was a German spy, he was used to dealing with very unsavoury people. It is very likely that things turned quite sour with one of the criminal masterminds he worked for, and that’s where you intervene. The two of you were filmed when you met and we know that he gave you an envelope. What I ask you is to give it to us. It must contain something very important to motivate an abduction.”

Bilbo kept silent for a moment, still still not sure whether Andrew was trustworthy. He had lied to him before, what if he planned to use him as a bait and involved him deeper in this mess.

“William, please, we know you have it on you,” Andy almost begged.

With a sigh Bilbo slowly plunged his hand in his pocket and pulled out the envelope.

“I guess I’d rather not know how you managed to find out that I had brought it with me,” Bilbo said with resignation. “I actually intended to drop it at the first police station I could find, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Bilbo set the envelope on the surface of the table before slipping it toward Gandalf. The older man picked it between his knotty fingers. Bilbo saw deep furrows creasing his brow when he opened the square of paper and peered inside. He looked up with obvious puzzlement to his godson who merely shrugged.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this better than you,” Bilbo said blankly while Gandalf pulled the ring out of its casket of paper. “A ring, a mere ring. I must admit it sounds like a cheap McGuffin out of bad spy movie.”

Gandalf frowned at the ring as though it had personally offended his intelligence, then it put it back in the envelope and pocketed it.

“Have you ever met Holtzfäller before? He looked like he knew you personally.”

“He did know me, or at least who I was. He told me that his children are quite fond of my books.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing unusual.”

Gandalf sighed deeply as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you, Bilbo, for your cooperation. I know it has been a rough day for you, but I’m afraid it might not be quite over yet. You’ll understand that we cannot simply send you back home where you’d be an easy target. We have a moral duty to protect you.”

“And what are you planning to do, pray tell?”

“What we usually do to protect a witness whose only fault was to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment: you’ll stay in one of our safe houses under the surveillance of one of our agents.”

Bilbo all but sniggered.

“And how long am I supposed to stay locked indoor with nothing to do but chitchat with a stranger?”

“As long as it will be necessary.”

“For God’s sake!”

“I wasn’t aware that living recluse in your home had made you lose all kind of common sense, Bilbo. This is no average thug that is after you. Whoever wants this ring was ready to abduct you to have it. Besides, you’re my godson, they could try to get to me through you. That’s a risk I don’t have the right to take.”

“So, you’re in fact protecting yourself,” Bilbo remarked defiantly.

“No, it’s you I’m try to protect. That’s the promise I made to your mother the last time I saw her. She made me promise to look after you and take care of you. Though, it’s not like she left me any choice.”

Gandalf chuckled dreamily, as though remembering some distant memories.

“Belladonna was quite the woman, but you already know that. She must have told you everything about her adventures herself, and with much more panache than I could ever dream to have. You have inherited her gift for story-telling though hers was more like a deadly weapon. When I met her I was nothing more than a rookie in the secret service. I had just finished law school. It was forty years ago. Bella was already an accomplished journalist, and one of the fiercest. She was gorgeous with her ginger hair. She look like she had sprung out of the illumination of a codex.”

Sir Grey seemed to remember that Bilbo was in the same room as him.

“I must confess you something, William, something that remained only between your mother and me. Even your father never knew about this. I fell in love with your mother the instant our eyes met,” Gandalf said softly, his voice thick now. “How could I not, she was as eerie as a dream and daring like a lion. But when I asked her to marry me, she refused. She said that I was her dearest friend but that she didn’t love me this way.”

Andrew heaved a deep breath.

“It’s one thing to feel the bitter bite of rejection, it’s a whole other one to be dismissed by the love of one’s life, Bilbo. But I loved her still, from afar and I watched her marry another man before giving birth to this man’s son. I loathed you at first, Bilbo, because you were the symbol of their mutual love. Jealousy was eating me; well until I saw you for the first time. Even as a new born you were so alike her, and this likeness grew over the years, I just couldn’t bring myself to hate you.”

A flash of guilt crossed the old and weary face of his old friend.

“After Bungo’s passing, I proposed to your mother once again and I confessed that my feelings for her had never changed. I don’t think I could ever forget what I saw in her eyes this day. Even though she was still mourning your father, she pitied me. I had lost some of her esteem, so I swore to myself never to give her an opportunity to pity me again. That was the last time we ever spoke of my love for her.”

“But you still cared for her,” Bilbo breathed, stunned. “You brought her to her chemotherapy course when I couldn’t. You paid her visits every month and called her every single week.”

“I swore to the only woman I ever loved that I would protect her only son as if he was my own. I assure you, William, I’ll make sure that you get out of this safe and sound.”

Bilbo looked up to Gandalf. So many things made sense to him now: the ever present Andrew, the close complicity between this man and his mother.

“I have one last question: did Mom know?”

The old man heaved a brow.

“That I was a spy? Of course she knew. Who did ever manage to keep a secret from her.”

“Alright then, I’ll trust you Andy.”

Gandalf stood up slowly.

“Alright then, I’ll go settle a few things, then I’ll have somebody drive you to one of our safe houses. I don’t think it will be long. Do you want something to drink or to eat, anything to read?”

“A…A tea would be nice, I guess,” Bilbo said, a bit startled.

“Good, you’ll get that in a moment. I’ll see you later, Bilbo.”

*

Boadach could barely believe what his ears had heard. He had sat behind the way-mirror to witness Baggins’ interogation, and had been far from expecting to hear such confessions. Sir Andrew had always put so much effort into looking flawlessly invulnerable that seeing him acting less like a machine and more like a proper human being was genuinely destabilizing. And quite endearing: his boss clearly cared about this small fussy man with the improbable choice of shirts and bowtie. In spite of the currently strained relationship between them, they interacted with familiarity, but what stunned Bofur the most was Andrew’s confession. Every agent theoretically had to be rather secretive about their personal lives, for obvious reasons of safety, but Grey’s life had always been opaque and nebulous: nobody had the slightest idea of what his hobbies were, or if he had a family. Honestly, Bofur had learnt more about his boss during the last few days than during his whole time at Thames House.

The sound the door made as Gandalf opened it startled him out of his reverie. He looked up to meet a stern and icy gaze.

“Did somebody else hear what I said in this room?” he asked curtly.

“No, nobody but me.”

“Fine, now if I learn that-“

“I’m a spy, Gandalf. I know how to keep a secret,” Bofur interrupted him.

Gandalf nodded slightly, as a fleeting gratefulness crossed his face like a ray of sunlight piercing a layer of clouds. A soft knock at the door extinguished the softness of his old face, then Dori, Balin and Thorin came into the room.

 

“Ah, Dominic. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but would you kindly prepare a cup of tea for Mister Baggins. Meanwhile, we’ll discuss his future accommodation.”

“Did he finally agree to cooperate with us?” Balin inquired.

“He did. He gave me the envelope and what it contains.”

Gandalf pulled the envelope out of the pocket of his blazer and took the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

“A ring?” Thorin deadpanned.

“A ring; I’ll entrust it to Norbert. I’m sure he’ll be able to figure out what makes it so important for our new adversary.”

“And what of Mister Baggins?”

“The poor William is totally clueless about what is happening to him. I trust you Barnaby for finding a safe place for him to stay. As for you, Thomas, I think I’ll appoint you to his protection.”

Instantly, Thorin’s face darkened. Gandalf certainly noticed this change of composure for he quickly added:

“Do not think that it’s some kind of punishment; it is not. I’m not asking you to babysit William, I trust you with the protection of a person who is dear to me. Besides, you’ll probably find him more likable than you would suspect, Bilbo is a man full of surprises.”

Thorin pouted dubiously and Bofur could hardly begrudge him as he looked through the mirror where William Baggins was blowing on the tea Dori had just brought him. It was never pleasant to deal with people who did not get how dangerous the trouble they were in was.

*

When the stylus met the dark vinyl disc, the only sound that resounded in the big empty flat was a muffled crackling; then the very first notes followed, solemn and serene, the tones of horns and clarinets resounded like in a cathedral. Samuel Alexeievich Ugenko felt his spirit escape his body to venture through the meanders of time to a medieval Germany full of heroes and legends. Tannhäuser remained one of his favourite operas ever since he had seen it performed in Bayreuth all these years ago. What a marvellous evening it had been. Over the years, he had travelled a lot, but not without his turntable and his vinyl discs; and now more than ever, he needed that space out of time that only Wagner’s music could provide him. He was sitting on a sofa in the middle of a spacious and empty flat in Belgravia, the turntable was set on the parquet floor as the notes where twirling in the air. The curtains were drawn and only a ray of  bleak light passed through. The amber hues of the glass of whisky he nursed in his right hand swirled in the light.

Ugenko knew that his ring was in the hands of the British secret service, but to him it was a mere inconvenience. He would get it back in due time. In fact, his mind was already weaving the deceitful web of a plan to regain what was rightfully his. And, like a spider, he would patiently wait for his prey to come entangle itself in its deadly strings. A smile was splitting his face, baring his white teeth when his cell phone rang. Ugenko casually pulled it out of his pocket, peered at the screen and answered the incoming call.

“Smaug?” the man in the receiver asked, a hint of restraint anger in his voice.

“Ah, I didn’t expect news from you this early,”

Smaug switched the turntable off and set his glass on the ground, right next to it.

“What is the meaning of your last email? We were supposed to meet this morning. What happened?”

Ugenko could tell only by the strained tones of his interlocutor that the man was terrified; a predatory grin curved the Ukrainian’s lips.

“Well, I thought that my message was rather clear, my dear friend: our meeting has to be postponed as one of my men played a nasty trick on me and burgled the ring.” Ugenko explained plainly. “Of course this man isn’t in any position to disclose anything about our… deal anymore, so you can sleep without any worries. As for the ring, I’m sure that I’ll regain it. The only thing I need is time and a bit of patience.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you? For all I now, I could just decide that the deal is off and watch you pitifully struggle to save your skin.”

Ugenko’s smile widened even more as he took his glass and sipped a mouthful.

“You hardly have the choice.”

The other man remained quiet for a while.

“I beg your pardon,” the man finally growled menacingly, his Russian accent being more and more obvious in his growing anger.

“You know I’ll get back what is mine as well as you know that I’d easily find another client interested by the ring and much more generous than you. So your threats are empty, comrade, as I know how much you need the Nibelung. Thus, if you cancel our deal, then I’ll make sure to sell the ring to one of your enemies. You know what would happen next, don’t you Azogov? Besides, I doubt that your government would give up on the ring this easily. Now I guess you have understood who leads the show, have you? I’ll stay in touch with you. Be assured that you’ll be the first person to know when the ring is back in my hands. Or maybe not after all.”

Smaug hung up before Pavel Ivanovich Azogov could reply anything, slid this cell-phone back in the pocket of his suit and turned the turntable back on, letting Wagner infuse his soul with grand inner images.


End file.
